


Dhamphir The Reaper

by da_petty



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Bars and Pubs, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Child Abuse, Claustrophobia, Death Threats, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Dhamphirs, Drunk John Watson, Embarrassment, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Family Secrets, Frottage, Hurt John Watson, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Kidnapped John Watson, Lies, M/M, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Parent/Child Incest, Past Child Abuse, Pedophilia, Rape Aftermath, Sad with a Happy Ending, Shame, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Suicidal Thoughts, Tongue Piercings, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22588771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/da_petty/pseuds/da_petty
Summary: Sherlock is a Dhamphir, (the product of a mating between a male vampire and a female human) and is compelled to hunt Vampires that cause problems in general and exposure to the public in particular.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 100
Kudos: 93





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> ***  
> Almost forgot. Dhamphirs don't come into power until they turn 16.
> 
> I'm using the Albanian description for Dhamphirs because it fits Sherlock to a T. Specifically dark or black, wild hair. Lives among humans. Interested in solving crimes. Not subject to things that would affect vampires such as sunlight, silver, or crosses, etc. They're usually good characters with the occasional bad one slipping through. Vampires are usually bad but that doesn't suit my story idea so I've made them more like people. Could be bad. Could be good. I can't have Sherlock going around killing every vampire he meets. What would his mum say?!
> 
> This prologue is short and is more of an encouragement for me to keep writing it. Well, and to see how many people are interested in me continuing with the fic.
> 
> Dhamphir is pronounced "Dom Fear" in this fic. There are many different ways to pronounce it throughout different cultures but this particular version fits the title of the fic that I wanted to use so there you have it.
> 
> Tags may change as content change please check them before reading each new chapter.
> 
> ***  
> Kudos and comments are very encouraging to writers so, if you like the idea of the fic and would like to see it continue, either or both would be greatly appreciated. 
> 
> Debbie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty is introduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some cleanup of the chapter. No major changes.

Sherlock sat on the rooftop of 221B gazing intently at humanity as it walked along below, filling their limited lives with unimportant things for unimportant people and was annoyed by it all. 

Hearing Mycroft approach, he did not turn around. He wasn't worth the distraction.

"Ah. I thought I'd find you up here brooding like Batman, as usual." Mycroft said, tapping his umbrella as he walked to where Sherlock was sitting on the ledge.

"I don't know who this ‘bat man' is but I wish you'd quit bringing him up. We can't fly so the comparison makes absolutely no sense. The man is obviously delusional"

"Oh, brother dear. Would it kill you to keep up with pop culture? Just a little bit? You know, to keep up with the times?"

"Times haven't changed, Mycroft. People are still out there murdering each other when if they'd just wait, nature would take care of that for them."

"Then why must you persist in seeking out the people causing these pointless murders? You're only saving people who are going to die anyway. Isn't that what you're saying? Hmmm?"

"Shouldn't you be off running the government? You have a "job" after all." Sherlock sneered.

"As if you working with Scotland Yard to find murderers isn't a job," scoffed Mycroft.

"It isn't a job. I get bored. It's something to do," Sherlock replied defensively.

"But a very unimportant one and not beneficial to our species." Mycroft said slyly.

"More of these murders are committed by vampires than not. I'm doing your job for you. Stop being an arse. You're interfering with my concentration. Now go away." Having never turned his head around, Sherlock made a vague shooing gesture with his hand in Mycroft's general vicinity.

"That's true. That is very helpful to our kind. I stand corrected."

"I'll be sure to mark that on the calendar. 'Mycroft agreed with me.'" Sherlock replied sarcastically.

Mycroft twirled his umbrella and sighed turning to leave but hesitated.

"I knew this wasn't a social call. What is it that you want this time?"

"Well, since you've brought it up..."

Sherlock snorted, which Mycroft ignored.

"We seem to have an alarming amount of government personnel turning up dead or worse,” said Mycroft.

"Worse? Just say that they're being turned into vampires."

"That sounds so pedestrian. Anyhow, you enjoy looking for murderers and now I'm presenting you with one."

"Is he still unknown or does he have a name?” Sherlock said, feigning a casual interest.

"Oh. He has a name, alright. It's James Moriarty and he's been rubbing our noses in it for months."

"So, you know who he is. Go catch him yourself. You don't need my help. What brings you here now?"

"Well..." Mycroft started awkwardly.

"Oh. This is going to be good."

"He's been leaving bodies around London specifically requesting your attention. With notes...pinned to the victim's tongue,” Mycroft said with distaste.

"Why haven't I heard of this through the Yard?"

"They don't know about it - yet. We'd like to remain invisible to the public eye. Humans wouldn't take kindly to finding out that Vampires and Dhamphirs are real. It's in the best interest of all parties involved that news such as 'woman completely drained of blood found in field' remain unsubstantiated.

Sherlock turned and gave Mycroft his undivided attention. 

“You've finally said something interesting. Tell me more about this James Moriarty and how he's even heard of me."

"Oh. He knows you, alright. It started last summer…Mycroft began…


	2. John Watson Is Born

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John was born to a woman who had been raped (just mentioned, no details) because of which, she hates him. This chapter takes us from his childhood through being invalided out of the service and sent home. Then he meets Mike Stamford...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of rape (not detailed), child abuse (detailed). Heed the trigger warnings up top. They will definitely change as the story progresses.

***

40 Years Ago

The woman currently being wheeled into the Maternity Ward was screaming so loudly that visitors and nurses were stepping out into the hallway to investigate.

“Calm down, Mrs Watson. You’re blood pressure is dangerously high, you need to think about the baby.”

“It’s Miss Watson and fuck the baby. I just want it out of me. I don’t care what you do with it. Keep it. I don’t want it!”

The orderlies pushing the bed looked at each other in silence, the only indication of their thoughts; a quick glance at the patient, then each other, then looking awkwardly away.

“You don’t mean that. You’re just in a lot of pain right now and…”

“Oh, I mean it. Some man raped me and I wound up pregnant. I wanted an abortion but my parents wouldn’t give permission because I’m only 16. I just want it out. Throw it in the trash for all I care. Just know this; I won’t be leaving here with that bastard.”

The medical personnel entered the delivery room in shocked silence.

Once in the room, Miss Watson was gently moved to the birthing table, her feet placed in stirrups, the doctor checking to see how far along the delivery was.

“I can see the baby’s head. Almost there. This was a fast delivery. Most first children don’t make their entrance into the world so quickly.” The doctor soothed.

“I don’t care. What don’t you people get about me not caring. Get the salad tongs and yank that thing out.”

“That procedure’s rarely performed anymore, if at all. Now, if you’ll give a few strong pushes, the baby will be out and the pain will be over. Ready? Now push.”

The woman pushed so hard that the veins in her forehead stood out. Suddenly, she felt great relief as the baby was expelled. She lay back, exhausted.

“You have a boy!” The doctor said, holding the baby up for her to see. The nurse took the baby to perform the Apgar test to make sure that the newborn was healthy. Swaddling the baby, she brought him over to his mother who immediately turned away.

“Don’t you want to hold him?” The nurse asked.

“I never want to see that thing again in my life, much less touch it. I didn’t ask for that baby. I didn’t want it and I would have flushed it down the toilet if I could have. Just get rid of it. I want to get out of here. You like it so much, you keep it.”

Just then, the baby started crying and the nurse felt obligated to try one more time.

“The baby’s looking for comfort. You could try suckling him. It might change how you feel. You might be able to bond with him.”

The woman turned her head towards the nurse and gave her such an angry glare that the nurse actually stepped back a few feet.

“As far as I’m concerned, that thing is dead to me.”

“Do you have anyone out front in the waiting room who would like to see the baby?” The nurse asked, trying to remain calm but her forced cheerfulness was starting to crack around the edges. 

“You can see if my parents are out there. After all, they’re the ones who insisted that I bring that bastard into the world. Give it to them. Let them figure out what to do with it.”

The nurse stepped out of the room carrying the baby in her arms. She recognized the grandparents right away. The man was reserved and looked uncomfortable but the woman already holding her arms out to take the babe. Both were surprisingly young looking. They must have been high school sweethearts. They couldn’t have been more than 39 or 40 years old.

“You have a healthy grandson, Mrs…”

“Watson. Elizabeth Watson. How is Harriet?”

The nurse hesitated. “They’re examining her to make sure that she's fine and then she’ll be brought to her room. She should be in room 711 within the next half hour. You can wait in there for her if you’d like.”

“Would you mind letting Harriet know that we’ll be waiting for her and the baby, please?” Elizabeth said as she tried to hand the baby back to the nurse.

Holding her hands up as if to ward off taking the baby, the nurse replied;

“There’s a bassinet already waiting in Miss Watson’s room. You can hold him for as long as you’d like and put him in his bassinet when you’re ready.” 

“But Harriet will be expecting the baby to be returned to her. She might become upset if she doesn’t see him right away,” Elizabeth said anxiously.

“Oh, no,” the nurse said hurriedly, “Miss Watson is exhausted. In fact, she’s probably already sleeping so you’d actually be helping her by looking after the baby until she’s moved to her room. New mothers need all the rest they can get.” The nurse waited anxiously to see if Mrs Watson would cooperate or if she’d be forced to tell her that Miss Watson had refused to look at the child, much less hold it.

“Well, if you’re sure. We’ll just wait there until she’s brought in then. Come on, Bob.”

Bob dutifully and with a decided lack of enthusiasm, followed his wife into Harriet’s room. His wife had dragged him down here but he had nothing to say to his daughter. She’d embarrassed the family. How could they ever show their faces again. They’d need to get this thing adopted out as fast as possible. Pretend it’d never happened.

They’d hidden the entire pregnancy. Had her drop out of school as soon as she started to show. Never let her leave the house. No doctor visits. No friends over either. Bob didn’t believe the lie that Harriet had been raped. That little slut slept around and he knew it.

“Oh Bob, look at him! He looks just like you!” She held the baby up moving the blanket away from his face so that Bob could see him better.

Giving a cursory glance at the baby, Bob turned his head away only to immediately turn around giving the baby a second look. 

“See! He looks just like you!" Elizabeth enthused.

“Actually, he looks just like my father did as a baby and his mouth looks just like yours,” he said a bit nervously but softening slightly towards the child.

They heard the wheels in the hallway stop in front of the room and then Harriet was brought in looking decidedly pale and exhausted from giving birth.

“How are you, honey?” Harriet’s mother asked.

“How do you think I am and why is that thing still here? I told them to get rid of it.”

Elizabeth looked shocked. “You can’t mean that, Harriet! He’s your child.”

“He’s a rapist’s child, give it to him,” Harriet said with a meaningful look at her father who blushed.

“I don’t want that kid and I never want to see him again. You want him, I’ll sign whatever I have to to get rid of him. I don’t need that reminder hanging around my neck for the rest of my life.”

Although Harriet had been saying the same thing all along, Elizabeth had hoped that once she saw the child, she’d change her mind. Obviously that wasn’t going to happen. At least, not any time soon.

“Bob? Can I talk to you in the hallway?”

“What? I guess so.” They stepped outside closing Harriet’s door behind them.

“Bob, I want to keep the baby.” Elizabeth said.

“No. Just. No. Think of the shame. Especially when people realize that she doesn’t even want her own child. What kind of mother doesn’t want their own child?”

“Maybe someone who was raped?” Elizabeth said gently. She knew Bob’s opinion on the matter but she’d always believed her daughter and thought she understood how she felt. Harriet would come around, eventually, she hoped.

“I don’t know about all that. Maybe it happened, maybe it didn’t. She was probably asking for it. Look at the way she dresses for God’s sake! She’s definitely not acting like someone who loved the father, though, that’s for sure," Bob said, as if offended. 

"What would we do with him anyhow?” Bob said gruffly.

“Why, be his parents, of course! We’re only 40. It’s believable that he could be a late in life baby. All of our family live out of state. We haven’t seen them in literally years.”

“So we’re just supposed to show up with this new baby having never mentioned that you were expecting? How’s that supposed to work?” Bob asked skeptically.

“Don’t you worry about that. I’ll take care of it.”

“What’s his name going to be?” Bob asked begrudgingly.

“Hamish, after your father, and John after mine.” Elizabeth said with a bright smile.

“The names are fine but I think he’d be better off with ‘John’ as his first name and ‘Hamish’ as his middle name. It flows better and he’s less likely to be made fun of in school.”

Elizabeth beamed up at Bob, knowing in her heart that with Bob’s acceptance of John Hamish Watson, things were going to be alright.

***

The story of the “late in life” baby had gone over surprisingly well. Everyone in the family knew the truth; of course they did, but they were Catholics and you just didn’t talk about things like that to anyone; other than your closest family member or spouse and even then that was rare. Better to keep up the pretense than accidentally blurt out the truth. It’s not like the child would ever know. Besides, John’s birth certificate clearly listed Bob and Elizabeth as his legal parents and that was good enough for them. A perfectly legitimate illegitimate baby.

Forty years ago, record keeping wasn’t automated and Harriet had had the baby in a Catholic hospital which was scandalous enough for an unmarried woman. So when it came time to sign the birth certificate, everyone looked the other way as Bob and Elizabeth signed their names and ages to it. Not one person questioned it. That’s how these things were handled, after all.

***

Since Harriet didn’t work and couldn’t go back to school - the nuns hadn’t been fooled by the ‘late in life’ story and nuns had a very long memory - Harriet’s job was to stay at home and take care of the baby that she hated more and more each day. She could barely stand to look at him - he looked just like her father - much less feed him, change his nappies, wash and clothe him. He was an anchor around her neck. She was trapped and it was driving her insane.

And not only did she have to watch this brat but she watched her sister’s brat (Lawrence) too - who, in Harriet’s opinion, was God’s payback - had been born three months earlier than John. Oh, but her sister had been married first AND had a job, so she was held up as a paragon of virtue while Harriet was reminded day after day - ‘subtly’ - of her sins as she continued on with her penance of acting as wife of the house with kids who were so close in age as to be virtually twins. She was almost 18 now and constantly dreamed of leaving all of this behind her. She just needed to gather the courage to do it. She knew she’d never be welcomed home again and right now, she didn’t care. There was nothing here for her anyway.

***

Eventually, Elizabeth started noticing that John had begun having accidents around the house - often. The only one who was ever around to see what had happened was Harriet who blamed the child for being clumsy. 

“Oh. He tripped and fell face first onto a paint can, that’s how he lost his two front teeth.

Bruises? Kids get bruises, they’re clumsy. What about Lawrence? He hardly has any bruises. He just has better balance.

Kids fall off of swings all the time. He landed face first on the cobblestones, of course his nose is broken. I told him not to stand up on the seat. You know he doesn’t listen.

There’s probably something wrong with him. After all, Lawrence lives in the same house and is a happy baby with nary a mark on him. Obviously John’s just retarded or something.”

***

John was a quiet child who tried to keep himself out of everyone’s way and bring as little attention to himself as possible. He’d noticed that he had more accidents when his sister, Harriet was around so he tried to avoid her at all costs. It was just easier and safer that way.

He never complained about what was really happening. The beatings, the pinching hard enough to leave him black and blue, or the occasional cigarette burn which was never located where anyone could see it - besides Harriet - and John knew better than to complain. He knew better than to draw Harriet’s attention in general. It might help him in the moment - if they even believed him - but Harriet would make him pay forever.

John didn’t know why Harriet didn’t like him. At first he’d tried to do anything to make her smile, make her love him like she loved Lawrence but no, she was all lightness and joy with Lawrence while John was miserable and alone.

He’d tried to figure out what made Lawrence so special. Everyone doted on him. Even when he did things like throw his toys or knock his plate of food off of the table, they just laughed and said “oh, you!” And proceeded to clean up after him. Lawrence was never held accountable for any of the things he did and John couldn’t understand why.

Then one day Lawrence had shoved John down so hard that he’d struck his head against the wall leaving a huge lump on the back of his head. There was no one else around but Harriet, who was Lawrence’s favorite person - even over his mum and dad - and he looked at her nervously to see what she would do. Instead of being angry, she began to laugh. A laugh that grew louder and louder and that’s when Lawrence realized something in his little toddler heart; John was fair game.

***

Five Years Later

Eventually, it came to pass that John was so good at making himself invisible, he was considered a nuisance when he could be seen. If he had a question, he got the standard “children should be seen and not heard.” But they listened to Lawrence who now picked up Harriet’s slack in his abuse.

“Oh, John tried to take Lawrence’s toy away. John pushed him. John made fun of him. Lawrence was just defending himself.”

John couldn’t understand why no one could see the truth. Mummy was always distracted, she worked as a maid six days a week and didn’t have time for him. Although he did notice that she had time for Lawrence.

Eventually, daddy developed a temper. He went to work angry and came home later and later, smelling funny. The one thing that John knew was not to get his father's attention. He’d been beaten with a belt several times and on other occasions, the wooden cutting board because it was the closest thing to hand. John was black and blue constantly and no one questioned how it had happened anymore. It became ‘normal’.

Then it was time to start school and John couldn’t wait! He’d be out of the house, finally able to make friends and Lawrence would be in the grade ahead of him because he’d been born in December and John in March. But then it was decided that it would be better to keep them in the same grade so that they'd have each other's support in a new school. If John thought his life was hell before, it was nothing compared to Lawrence and his gang of friends.

Another unfortunate thing was that the nun teaching first grade math had also taught Harriet and knew the truth behind John’s birth. She made him sit in the front row and asked him the first question every day but he was always so terrified, he couldn’t think of the correct answer. She beat him for being wrong daily until it came to the point where John screamed and cried and refused to go to school. He'd rather take his beatings at home than in front of schoolmates who only laughed at him. Since this was NOT normal behavior for John, they knew something was wrong, although Harriet was just amused. 

John’s mother and father made a very rare and reluctant, visit to his school. He didn’t know or care what had happened; the beatings at school had stopped immediately afterwards and that was one less daily beating to take.

One day he came home from school to find that Harriet had run away. Mummy was a little upset but other than that, no one in the family, other than Lawrence and his mum, who had had to quit her job to take care of them both, seemed to care why she’d left or where she’d gone. Especially John. Now he only had Lawrence to deal with although his aunt wasn’t much nicer and also had a temper just like daddy’s. She yelled at John a LOT but he never knew what he’d done wrong so he didn’t know how to fix it.

Life at school was so much worse that John laid low to avoid Lawrence and his friends. He had no confidants - why bother when Lawrence would only scare them away or worse; turn them against John. He was so alone but he was used to it by now and thought that was how it was supposed to be. 

Then, one day he met Mike Stamford and his life finally began to gradually change for the better. 

***

John and Mike discovered that they both had a love of science and wanted to become physicians. Specifically surgeons. Mike stayed in London to attend university, while John joined the army because he couldn’t afford university but as a member of the armed services, he could go for free.

John became an excellent doctor and surgeon eventually rising to the rank of Captain. He was very popular amongst the other troop members. They’d lay down their lives for him. People actually respected him. Asked for and cared about his opinion. He’d finally found a place where he fit in perfectly. It was the happiest he’d ever been in his life. 

John was often in the field doing triage; preparing injured soldiers to be transfered to the medical center back at base camp. He wasn’t supposed to be in the field but he was so talented and had saved so many men that otherwise wouldn’t have made it that his commanding officers had thought it a risk worth taking.

One day, while caught in a hail of gunfire, which wasn’t unusual considering that they were on the front line, several soldiers - unasked - considered it their duty to protect John while he worked on the injured. Then, one of his guards had gotten shot leaving an opening in his protection from the enemy. John didn’t notice. He'd never asked for, or worried about, receiving special protection from anyone. He honestly hadn’t realized that he was being protected. He just knew that he had to save his men; it was all that he cared about. It was what he lived for.

As he finished the last stitch, he looked up to say that the corporal was going to make it if they could get him out of there fast enough. Before he had a chance to utter one word, he saw a rifle aimed at him and without time to think, he was shot in his left shoulder and darkness was all he knew for a long, long time.

***

A month later, he’d woken up in a hospital on the coast, the doctors telling him that they’d done as much for him as they possibly could but he would no longer be capable of performing surgeries due to the intermittent and uncontrollable tremor in his left hand. And that fast, his career as a soldier in the military was over. Then he was shipped back to London like so much worthless freight to begin both physical and PTSD therapy.

Everything had been taken away from him in less than a second by a bullet that had left shrapnel behind destroying so much bone and tissue that they’d had to leave some of the metal inside of him or risk decreasing his already limited mobility. It was hoped that physical therapy could offer him some improvement and less pain. John wasn’t optimistic but then, he usually wasn’t…anymore.

He found a small bedsit that he could barely afford on his pension and stared at his gun all day which had conveniently been sent back with him. Probably a friend had stashed it for him for which he was grateful.

***

One day he’d been cutting through the park to see his therapist (Ella), head down, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, as usual. He’d been reduced to his old self - timid and trying to remain hidden in plain sight.

He’d heard his name called but ignored it, only picking up his pace instead. How had he been noticed? He was clearly out of practice at being invisible. That sniper had certainly seen him though.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and angrily turned around ready to bite the head off of whomever thought that it was ok to just walk up behind him, much less touch him. People had pulled back a broken wrist for much less.

“John! John Watson! Good to see you! I guess you were in your own world! You walked right by the bench I was sitting on.” 

John just stared at the stranger for a few moments, trying to place where he knew this man from.

“It’s Mike! Mike Stamford.” He clutched his stomach. “I might have put on a bit of weight since the last time you saw me. Come on, have a seat on the bench with me and we can catch up.”

“Well, I was really on my way to look at a possible flat share,” John demurred. He didn’t want to admit that he was going to therapy. It embarrassed him. “London is an expensive place to live, especially on a government pension. Not to mention the fact that I’m looking for a job, but…” and here John held up his left arm indicating his injury.

“Yeah. I was really sorry to hear about that.” Mike said sincerely.

“But it’s not like I can’t stay in the medical field. I wouldn’t know what else to do anyhow. It’s just…well…my days as a surgeon are over, you know?” John finished lamely.

“What type of work are you looking for?” 

“Pretty much anything in the medical field but the job I’d been asked to interview for had been mysteriously filled right before I got there. I’ve even been rejected for ad locum work. Apparently they’ve never heard of my amazing skills as a doctor with a shaky left hand.”

“That’s ridiculous! We have a position open right now where I work and we’ve been trying to fill it for the past six months…but…” Mike trailed off.

“But what? Something I can’t do?”

Mike looked uncomfortable. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“Look, Mike. Whatever it is, I don’t care. I’m broke and living on tins of whatever’s on sale. How bad can it be?”

“It just feels awkward mentioning it now…” Mike seemed to suddenly have trouble meeting John’s gaze.

“Mike. I promise that I won’t be offended. I need a job. You have a job available. How bad could it be?”

“It’s…as chief coroner at St Bart’s.” Mike’s face grew red.

John forced a smile and said, “Hey, that’d be perfect! Can’t kill what’s already dead.” John laughed but felt himself die inside just a little bit more.


	3. Sherlock And John Meet Over A Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock meet at a crime scene - it's not love at first sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had fun writing this one.

***

Six Months Later

It was late, well after midnight; a tall man stood in the shadow of an alleyway keeping lookout while his boss finished the snack he’d picked up on their way to the pub.

The man finished his meal dabbing daintily at the corners of his mouth with a fine linen handkerchief. His initials were embroidered onto it: JM

“Seb, I just don’t know what we’d do without London having sprung up through the years building around alleys rather than connecting the buildings as they went,” JM laughed, tossing his now slightly bloodied handkerchief behind him like so much tissue. There were plenty more where that came from. Besides, he was fond of leaving evidence for Mycroft’s minions to scurry behind him to clean up before the cops got there. God forbid they should check for DNA. Wouldn’t THAT be interesting.

“Ok, Seb. It’s your turn to shine. The usual; check for bystanders, if you see any bystanders, kill said bystanders, drag freshly made corpse in front of the pub, open the door, ask if there’s a doctor in the house - I do so love a good cliche - then we’ll take a leisurely stroll across the street and watch as the action unfolds. Mycroft isn’t going to be able to catch this one in time.”

“Yes, Jim,” Seb said dutifully before checking the street for bystanders. It was after 1am and the pubs were still open so the streets were empty.

Seb went to the corpse and dragged him easily by the collar, depositing the body three feet from the pub door. Opening it he loudly asked; “Is there a doctor in the house? It’s an emergency!” In his best imitation of someone who actually gave a damn. The he joined Jim across the street to stand in the shadows and waited for the fun to begin. 

The first person out was the bouncer, quickly followed by what seemed to be the pub owner. Looking down, they saw that the body was of a young man, the blood on his white collar instantly visible.

Suddenly, a man pushed his way through the throng of people yelling; “Let me through, I’m a doctor!” 

John Watson quickly knelt down next to the man but knew just by looking at him that it was already too late. Still, he checked for a pulse and finding none, yelled to the bouncer; “Call Emergency Medical Services and Scotland Yard!”

John was still visually studying the body when the police arrived. He’d noted two puncture marks on the victim’s neck and was certain it wasn’t a natural death. Unable to discover anything else other than the blood on the victim’s collar without getting him on the exam table for a proper look, he waited for Scotland Yard. He wouldn’t disturb the evidence until it had all been properly documented anyhow.

“John. Fancy meeting you here,” DI Greg Lestrade said. “The coroner doesn’t usually get here BEFORE the Yard. Pub crawling, were you?” Lestrade smiled down at John. They’d become friendly bordering on friends, in the six months since John had become the senior coroner at St Bart’s. 

“Well, when a corpse is conveniently dropped at your doorstep, it’d be bad manners to ignore it,” John said.

“I see that the patrons seem to be back in the pub, with the exception of the owner and…,” Lestrade gave the muscle bound man a brief glance, “what seems to be the bouncer. Has anyone left since the body was discovered?” Lestrade asked the bouncer.

“No sir, I’ve been guarding the door just like Doctor Watson told me to,” said the bouncer, the pub owner nodding in agreement. John was well known and well liked in this pub only a few blocks walk from St Bart’s. You couldn’t throw a stone in this pub on a Friday night without hitting some sort of medical personnel.

“Good job, man. Now that the police are here, it’s best that you both go inside and make sure that your customers haven’t gotten into your top shelf liquors,” Lestrade joked. 

The pub owner looked at the door behind him, briefly stricken until he realized that it was a joke; he still had a full staff of servers inside.

“If you could keep any patrons from leaving until we’re able to interview them, it’d be greatly appreciated.” Although it was phrased as a request, they all knew that it was quite obviously not a suggestion. Lestrade had a way about him that put everyone at ease. People following orders without realizing that it hadn’t been their idea in the first place. Except for that damned Sherlock Holmes.

“What have you got so far, John?” Lestrade asked.

“Not much. I didn’t want to touch the body before the Yard got here not to mention that I don’t carry examination gloves on me everywhere I go. I’m not in the habit of being prepared to tend a murder at a moment’s notice,” John said, half jokingly, half seriously. When he left his lab, he left everything behind him. He had learned not to carry those kinds of emotions home with him. Of course, that was made a lot easier by the fact that the corpse was already very dead by the time it got to him. He hadn’t lost a patient yet. John smiled.

“What’s funny?” Lestrade asked.

“Nothing. I was just thinking about the odds of a body showing up in front of building full of medical staff.”

“Well, it’s convenient. I’ll say that.”

“Have you any gloves on you?” John asked.

“Nope but here come medical services, on time as usual. Good thing their patient has already expired. I’ll get some gloves from them and be right back,” Lestrade said walking towards the ambulance currently pulling up to the curb.

Suddenly, a shadow blocked John’s light and he looked up to see a tall young man in a long coat with a mane of black, curly hair. Instantly feeling a chill run up his spine, both examined each other in an awkward silence for a few minutes.

“What are you doing to my body, Dhamphir?”

“Who are you and by the way, the name is Doctor Watson, not…Dhamphir. Whoever or whatever that is,” John said.

“Don’t be coy. My name is Sherlock Holmes and I’m a Consulting Detective, the only one in the world, and you’ll find that I don’t have a sense of humor so kindly remove yourself from that body before I remove you myself,” Sherlock said calmly but with deadly sincerity.

Standing slowly and taking an aggressive stance, John said, “No. I don’t think I’ll be doing that. You’re at a crime scene. My crime scene which, as you seem to be a civilian, do not belong. Take yourself off before I do it for you,” John said, equally seriously and just as deadly.

“Here you go.” Lestrade walked up, exam gloves in a sterile wrapper and handing them to John who had reached for them at the same time as Sherlock Holmes. Both held onto opposite ends of the packet trying to stare the other down.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Sherlock, let that go. I know damn good and well that you always carry your own gloves everywhere hoping for something like this to happen.”

Sherlock suddenly released his hold on the gloves, waiting for John to fall back from the unexpected release of tension but was surprised to see that the man had not only retained his agressive posture but hadn’t moved an inch. Military man, Sherlock noted. A Dhamphir in the armed forces? Well, stranger things had happened. He watched as John ripped the package open, cleaned his hands with the included surgical soap and slid the gloves on.

“Who is this…man and why is he here before me much less touching my body?” Sherlock demanded.

“Well, first of all, the body doesn’t belong to you and secondly, Doctor John Watson is the chief coroner at St Bart’s who just happened to be on site when the body was literally dropped at the door. And he hasn’t touched the body until now.”

“Isn’t that convenient. I’m assuming that the man was already dead and that, ‘Mister’ Watson, didn’t wait until he could become a “patient” of his?” Sherlock sneered.

“First of all, it’s Doctor Watson and I’m also a surgeon,” John replied indignantly.

“You mean that you ‘used to be’ a surgeon until that pesky rifle shot to the left shoulder in…Iraq? Afghanistan? Took that ability away from you. Tragic loss for a leftie,” Sherlock said sarcastically, watching in satisfaction as John’s face suffused with red.

“And why didn’t it heal completely? As a Dham...soldier, the doctors should have been able to put you back together quickly and with ease. I see that they must not have had your…’skills’,” Sherlock ended sarcastically.

John stood staring at Sherlock, one glove already on, pausing in the act of putting on the second.

“And how would you know any of that?”

“Consulting Detective, remember? Were you shot in the head as well? Bad memory?” Sherlock said, tapping his index finger to his forehead.

“Looks like you took the first job you could get, eh? Shame that the medical field seems to be picky about whom they’ll let work on their live patients,” Sherlock smiled smugly.

Lestrade stood there watching as his best consultants had an argument that was growing increasingly nasty while neither paid the slightest attention to the body on the ground that was growing colder by the moment.

“If you two have done with measuring your cocks, could you please remember that there’s a murder to solve and that you’re both more than qualified to be here? Honestly, Sherlock, you exhaust me at times,” Lestrade finished.

Sherlock, looking indignant at being chastised, still knelt down simultaneously with John, to examine the body.

“He’s been dead less than an hour,” Sherlock said matter of factly.

John stopped what he was doing and looking up at Sherlock, asking suspiciously; “And just how would you know that?”

“How can you NOT know it? I could smell him from a block away. Not an old death but not exactly a fresh death either. Look at the way that blood is still bright red on his white shirt collar, the not quite coagulated blood on his neck…”

“Amazing,” John said.

This caused Sherlock to pause.

“You really think so?” Sherlock asked, checking for sarcasm and finding none.

“Yes, that’s what I’d deduced before Greg arrived on the scene. That was brilliant,” John said while Sherlock blushed.

“Who’s Greg?” Sherlock asked.

“Sherlock. Don’t start that…” Lestrade said wearily, as if they’d been over this thousands of times before - which they had.

“What else do you see, Doctor Watson?” Sherlock asked, now truly curious. Maybe this Dhamphir knew what he was talking about although it was obvious from his reactions that he seemed to be unaware of the fact that he was, albeit a young one, clearly a Dhamphir. Curious.

“Holmes. Look at this.” John said, having pried the corpse’s lips apart showing that a note had been pinned to the victim’s tongue. Not an easy feat through such a strong muscle.

John looked closer to see if he could read the note then leaned back and said, stunned;

““Got tired of waiting, Sherlock. Yours, JM””

“Sherlock, you know the murderer?” Lestrade asked, shocked.

“Not yet. But I shall…”


	4. Examining The Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John heads to the morgue at 3:30am to examine the body. Sherlock doesn't think that anyone will be there at that hour of the night. Surprise!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all exposition, folks!

***  
3:30am St Bart’s, Coroner’s Lab

Since the pub was only a few blocks away from St Bart’s, John had walked there with Mike Stamford rather than hire a taxi. 

He’d hitched a ride with Lestrade back to the hospital who’d dropped him off at the door assuming that John was just going in to make sure that the body was stored properly so that he could begin examining it after he’d had some sleep. But John had no intention of going home. What for? It’s not like he had anything better to do or that he was able to sleep for more than an hour at a time anyway, so he just followed the med techs as they wheeled the body into the morgue and placed it on the table.

“Thanks, guys,” John said. He knew these two and, as with everyone else, had a good relationship with them. Outwardly, John seemed to be an easy going man who laughed easily and often. However, inside was a completely different story. He hid his anger behind the facade of being a content man when he was anything but. 

He’d figured that the anger had stemmed from being invalided out from the service but his therapist, Ella, had told him that she felt he had past traumas from childhood that he’d never dealt with. John had just laughed in her face and told her that he was there for the emotional therapy that the military required all injured and decommissioned service members to attend once they’d gone home. He was there to address that one thing and be cleared to leave.

Basically, he was faking it until he could be released from the mandatory therapy. He said nothing about his childhood - he never even thought about it so there was no reason to discuss it. Why dredge up the past? He just wanted Ella to sign off on the therapy so that he could stop wasting his time there.

He’d been honest with Mike when he’d said that he was looking for a someone to share a flat with. His savings were almost gone at that point and he was living from benefit check to benefit check; until Mike had told him about the available position at Bart’s.

Because the position had been open for so long they’d ignored the fact that John was over qualified for the job. Normally, they’d never hire anyone they thought might get bored and look for another job somewhere else almost immediately but in a case of serendipity, the hospital was desperate for a coroner - they’d had to send bodies for autopsies to the nearest hospital which was not only embarrassing, but didn’t allow them access to any of the process at all. They had to rely on the good graces and availability of the other hospital’s coroner, an arrangement that had soon become untenable. 

And so John and St Bart’s were both satisfied with his addition to the department. John was especially grateful that, with the exception of the Forensic Pathologist, Molly Hooper, he had the autopsy room all to himself. He found it difficult to maintain the facade of being happy go lucky John Watson for long periods of time so the less time spent with people the better. 

Since it was way too early for Molly to draw all the bloodwork and evidence pre-autopsy, John took care of that for her, having everything lined up, the appropriate enzymes for testing added, labeled neatly and ready for her to work on when she arrived. 

He’d just finished making the Y incision when he felt the same chill run up his spine that he’d felt when Sherlock Holmes had seemed to appear out of thin air. The man was a pompous arse but had impressed John with his quick diagnostic capabilities although that didn’t mean that it was anything more than a lucky guess. John didn’t think so but only time would tell.

John heard the outer doors to the autopsy room open and before the secondary doors had been cracked more than an inch said;

“Hello Sherlock. What brings you here at this time of night?” He hadn’t even turned around to see who was coming in. He’d just ‘known.’ Weird.

“Doctor Watson. I might ask the same of you. Why are you here already beginning the autopsy?”

Sherlock didn’t need much sleep so he often went to St Bart’s to work in the lab enjoying the peace and quiet that came along with being the only one there late at night, surrounded by microscopes and test tubes. He’d realized that Watson was there before he’d even opened the doors and was slightly nonplussed by it.

“Well, Sherlock. May I call you Sherlock?”

“Please. And I shall call you John.”

“Great. Since leaving the military…,” John began.

“You mean pensioned off…,” 

“Yes. Yes. Either way, this is my job now and I wanted to get an early start. This IS where I work, after all. You, on the other hand, shouldn’t even be here.”

“I think you’ll find that there are a lot of places that you wouldn’t think that I should be and yet you’ll still find me there. Better to just accept it although I can have it confirmed for you from someone well above your pay grade.” 

Yep. Pompous arse. John had learned the hard way not to be a very trusting person when he met someone new and said;

“Yes. I’d like to hear from someone with a little more authority than a stranger I’ve just met over a dead body, assuring me that he should be allowed access to a secure area at all hours of the day and night.”

This surprised Sherlock. He wasn’t used to someone questioning his word and he didn’t like it, not one bit. Time to put this little man in his place.

“I see that you’ve already begun the autopsy. Shouldn’t the body have been checked for evidence, blood samples, etc, before you began cutting it up? I don’t see the Forensic Pathologist around to take care of all of the work necessary to prepare the body to be examined.” Sherlock said with the attitude of someone who thinks they’ve caught someone in a mistake.

“I saw no reason to disturb Molly at this hour and took all of the samples myself. You can check the vials on the workbench if it will make you feel better.” 

John was becoming annoyed but had still been able to hide it. For how much longer, he didn’t know. This Holmes character definitely rubbed him the wrong way and, for the lack of a better term, the vibes that he got from this man were unlike any he’d ever felt before. 

“Did you take samples from the puncture…,” Sherlock started to say before seeing the neatly labeled vial in the stand. He’d really hoped to have been able to contaminate the saliva from the bite wound before it had been sent up for testing. 

John, back to Sherlock, just continued to work, with a smug smile.

“You know, smirking doesn’t really suit you, John,” Sherlock said close to John’s right ear causing him to jump slightly. He hadn’t even heard the man move.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that again. You might not like what happens next time.” 

“Nervous, Doctor?” Sherlock asked, curious.

“I just don’t like people coming up behind me. You get one warning. Don’t do it again,” John said, all traces of good natured humor gone from his voice.

“Your reaction seems to be a little over the top for an army medical doctor. Seen a lot of action, have you?”

“Enough to last a lifetime,” John replied still continuing his work.

“Still, it seems to be more than that. Although you were often on the frontline repairing soldiers as soon as they were injured - with an almost preternatural success rate - your work up said that you were calm under pressure and could take anything thrown at you so I seriously doubt that your fear of being approached unexpectedly from behind is related to your time in the service. It seems fairly ingrained. Rough childhood, eh?” Sherlock finished.

John stopped what he was doing, threw his scalpel on the tray, ripped his gloves off, turned around, grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his ridiculous coat, and shoved him against the nearest empty wall.

His voice low and filled with menace, John said;

“And how would you know anything about my time in the service. I literally just met you tonight. You hadn’t even heard of me before then. Didn’t even know who I was. So…,” John pulled Sherlock away from the wall only to slam him back hard enough to crack the plaster, “please explain to me where you got this information in such a short amount of time, in the middle of the night, no less, and make it quick before I bloody that pretty face of yours.” 

Then Sherlock did something that surprised John; he smiled at him.

“You think that I won’t kick your arse? If you’ve read about me, you’ll have already learned that I was only challenged once or twice when I first started in the army but it only took a couple of times for people to realize that it wasn’t a good idea to test their strength against mine. So. Where. Did. You. Get. That. Information.

“Doctor Watson, I didn’t know that you had it in you,” Sherlock said, shoving the doctor hard enough to knock him back a few feet but not nearly as far as Sherlock thought he should have gone. Sherlock hadn’t met anyone who could beat him in a fight - yet. He might have finally met his match in Doctor Watson. And he couldn’t wait to find out.

John stalked back to Sherlock, grabbed the sleeve of his coat and twisted his arm behind his back, pushing him towards the exit.

“I won’t have your nonsense interfering with my work,” John said, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s arm and wrenching it higher behind his back. This didn’t seem to impress the man one bit because the next thing John knew, they’d switched places with John’s arm twisted behind his back in a position similar to the one he’d just had Sherlock in. 

Smiling, John said, “I was trying to be nice but I see that won’t work with you. Don’t say that I didn’t warn you,” John said, sweeping his leg around behind Sherlock’s and knocking him flat on his arse.

“Finally! A worthy opponent! I’ve never been bested in a fight either. Take your best shot!” Sherlock smiled, leaping up as if on springs only to meet John’s fist as soon as he was upright.

Sherlock touched his nose and looked at the blood on his hand. He smiled even wider.

“You drew first blood. Impressive. My turn,” Sherlock said and swept John’s feet out from under him, or tried to. John just stood there in a battle ready position and punched Sherlock in the chest knocking the air out of him.

***

5am Hallway Outside Of The Morgue

Two exhausted and bloody men sat on the floor leaning against the wall. Both smiling. Both content. John stood up, back aching, and walked into the exam room coming back with paper towels dampened with warm water. 

Sliding tiredly back down against the wall, John handed one paper towel to Sherlock who began cleaning the blood off of his face while John did the same to his own.

“I haven’t had such a good time since…,” John began.

“Since before you were injured,” Sherlock stated matter of factly.

John felt his back go up and started to become defensive but then relaxed.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I haven’t a had such a good time in decades,” Sherlock said.

“Decades? What are you? All of 32?” John laughed.

“I’m older than I look,” Sherlock said.

“Really. How far off was I?” John asked.

“One hundred years, give or take a decade. I can’t be bothered tracking inconsequential things like that,” Sherlock said off handedly.

John laughed.

“”One hundred years,” eh?” John laughed again. “Seriously, how old are you really.”

“You’re being very tedious, John. I’m not in the habit of repeating myself. I told you that I’m not really sure. Wait. I’ll check with Mycroft. He retains the most useless and mundane information,” Sherlock said, pulling his mobile from his pocket and speed dialing his brother.

“Caught Moriarty already? I’m impressed,” Mycroft said by way of a greeting.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Doctor Watson just asked me how old I was and you know I don’t remember pointless information like that but I know that you do. So…ah…well, I was close,” Sherlock said and disconnected the call without saying anything else.

“I’m apparently 150 years old. Satisfied?” 

“You’re either having a go with me or you’re completely mental. I can’t decide which.”

“Neither. I’m completely serious. Since the hospital is waking up, let’s you and I step out for some coffee and talk this over. I have a few things to tell you about yourself that I don’t think you’re aware of,” Sherlock said, standing up.

Sherlock held out his hand to John who reached up and took it allowing himself to be pulled up.

“Uh. Sure. I’d love to hear more about how old you are,” said John, curious as to how far Sherlock would take this game.

“Do you remember when we first met?”

“You mean, last night?” John replied. “Yeah. I think I can recall that far back.”

“And I called you “Dhamphir” and you acted like you didn’t know what that meant?”

“I wasn’t acting, I just figured you were a looney,” John laughed.

They walked to the elevator, incoming staff looking at their bloodied faces and wondering what the hell had happened. There was no way that they were going to ask though. They didn’t want to get involved.

John and Sherlock exited the hospital in a companionable silence, walked to nearest coffee shop, sat down, John ordering coffee and breakfast, Sherlock, coffee only, and waited for their drinks to arrive before starting their conversation.

Their coffee came and they both added cream and sugar. Sherlock, in John’s opinion, putting a ridiculous amount of sugar in his cup.

“Well?” John asked.

“A Dhamphir is half human, half vampire but without all of the pesky weaknesses of either. This only happens when a male vampire has sex with a female human and any baby resulting from such a union is a Dhamphir,” Sherlock said seriously.

“Uh huh. So…you’re one of these ‘Dhamphirs’ then?” John asked, trying to keep a straight face as he stirred his coffee.

“Yes. And you’re one too.”

John stopped stirring, carefully set his spoon on the saucer and looked at Sherlock. Really looked and realized that Sherlock believed this load of horseshit. Great. He finally meets someone he gets along with and he’s insane.

“Ok. I think I’d better go home and get some rest and I suggest that you do the same. You’re obviously overtired and don’t know what you’re talking about,” John said not unkindly, unsure of Sherlock’s reaction. He really seemed to believe this nonsense.

“And one more thing; pretty sure that my dad’s not a vampire. Saw him in the daylight more than once. Hell, he had a day job. This has been very entertaining though. Good story.”

“I hear that you’re looking for a flatmate,” Sherlock said, surprising John with the non sequitur. 

The sudden change in topic caused John to respond without thinking.

“I am. Yes. And how the hell do you know that? And all the other things that you seem to know about me. You’ve never answered that one either.”

Ignoring John’s questions completely, Sherlock said;

“I also happen to be looking for a flatmate and have a spare bedroom.”

“How lovely for you,” John said, getting his wallet out and throwing a few pounds on the table for the coffee and the breakfast that had yet to come.

“It’s not far from here. We can catch a taxi and be there in 15 minutes.”

“Nah. That’s ok. I’m good. My flat is within walking distance. I think I’m going to head home now,” John said standing up.

“I know something else that you don’t know,” Sherlock said, throwing out what he hoped was the perfect bait.

“Really, and in, what? Something around 15 hours you know my life story? What riveting piece of information could you possibly have that I don’t already know?”

“Bob and Elizabeth Watson aren’t your real parents and Harriet isn’t your sister,” Sherlock said straight faced.

“Oh, that’s a good one. My birth certificate would seem to disagree,”

“John. You’ve been lied to all of these years. Bob and Elizabeth are your grandparents. Harriet Watson is your mother and I can prove it.”

John slid back down into the chair and just stared at Sherlock as if he’d never seen him before.

“Come with me to my flat. 221B Baker Street and I’ll explain it all to you.”

‘This is crazy. This is crazy,’ John thought. ‘I’m about to agree to go home with a madman living in a fantasy world.’

“Ok.”

And for the third time in John’s life, a major change was about to take place.


	5. John's Origin Story As Told To Him By Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John can't handle the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editing obsessively.

***

1:30am Outside of Pub

“Well, what do you know, there really was a doctor in the house,” Jim said, laughing.

“Oh, and look how dedicated he is. Sorry, doc, this is the one that got away but by all means, give it your best shot,” Jim said, laughing again.

“Do we leave now?” Seb asked from the shadowy corner from where they’d been watching the drama unfold.

“Oh. No. No. No. Sherlock’s bound to turn up sooner or later and we still have several hours until sunrise. I love the winter! Besides, I want to see his face when he sees the bite marks and the note. He loves a challenge, just like me! We are SO alike!”

Seb just nodded in agreement. He didn’t understand Jim’s fascination with the Dhamphir but he worked for Jim and it wasn’t his job to understand the bosses’ reasons for anything he did and he knew better than to question him.

“Ooh! Look! Sherlock’s already here! That was fast, even for him. He must have been at St Bart’s, dissecting eyeballs or some other waste of time. Honestly, he needs me. His life is so pointless and boring!”

They watched as the doctor stood up, anger writ all over his face.

“Ooh. Look at Sherlock’s tense shoulders! The doctor seems to be angry too! Just look at the red face and his readiness to throw a punch! It’d be a bonus if they get into a physical altercation…” said Jim only to be disappointed when they both knelt down and began looking at the body.

“Well, that was anti-climactic,” Jim sighed disappointedly. 

“Wait! The doctor has seen the note! Look at his face! Look how shocked he is! I haven’t had this much fun in decades!” Jim said but then his lips turned down into a pout.

“Awe. They’re leaving now. No fisticuffs tonight. Seb, find out who that doctor is. I want to know everything about him. I didn’t like the look that he gave Sherlock at the end. Sherlock’s mine! Let’s go!”

They slipped into the darkness and went back to their base. They couldn’t get too close to Sherlock. Dhamphirs could sense when a vampire was nearby. The game was just starting and Jim wasn’t in a hurry to end it. The longer it took, the better.

***

4:30am, 221B Baker Street

John entered the flat, taking in all of the scientific equipment crowding the kitchen and the books stacked into precarious towers. Other than the furniture, there wasn’t an empty spot in the flat. 

He walked around, looking at the titles on the books, killing time while Sherlock had gone into his bedroom for…what he didn’t know.

‘Interesting or disturbing combination of subject matter,’ John thought, staring at the books on anatomy, chemistry, and…cigarette ash? The last having Sherlock’s name on it as the author. An entire book dedicated to ash? Curiouser and curiouser.

“Enjoying my selection? Oh no. Don’t stop. You might find something you’d like to borrow,” Sherlock said as he entered the living room. “I’d want it back, of course.”

John turned around to find that Sherlock had changed into pajamas and what looked to be a satin robe.

“Um…I don’t know what you had planned but I can assure you that I’m not interested. Not that you’re not an attractive man but I’m not gay,” John said.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Sherlock asked, slightly puzzled.

“You’ve changed into…” John nodded towards Sherlock’s attire, “pajamas. I wasn’t aware that it was that kind of ‘meeting’,” John finished awkwardly.

Sherlock looked down at what he was wearing, then looked back at John’s face and burst out laughing.

“I can assure you, Doctor…John, that I’m not trying to seduce you. If I wanted you in my bed, we’d already be there.”

“Don’t flatter yourself!” John exclaimed.

“Self-flattery is for the insecure. What I’ve just told you is a fact. Nothing more, nothing less. It requires no self-flattery. Besides which, you’re already attracted to me. I could sense it as soon as we met,” Sherlock stated with what John thought was presumptuous arrogance. 

“Sorry to disappoint you but I am NOT attracted to you…” John began.

“If you say so, John,” Sherlock said, casually brushing aside John’s concerns. “In any event,” he continued, “we’re here to discuss your background. That’s all. We can address your interest in having intercourse with me at a later date. I must admit that I’m a little intrigued by your admiration. It went straight to my groin.”

John reflexively looked at Sherlock’s crotch, blushed, and looked back up again.

“Your virtue is safe. Now have a seat. I have a lot to tell you,” Sherlock said as he sat down.

John decided to just ignore the entire…seduction conversation and move on to the thing that he was most interested in; how did Sherlock know so much about him after only having just met him.

“I imagine that your first question is about how I could possibly know so much about you. That’s easy; I’ve been waiting for a new coroner to be hired at St Bart’s for months now. The minute that you were hired, I had your background investigated. Although it said nothing of your being a Dhamphir. My brother will hear from me over this lack of critical information.” Sherlock frowned.

“And just how would your brother have access to confidential information?” John asked, annoyance clear in his voice.

“He holds a ‘minor’ position in the government and his fingers are in many pies, both figuratively and literally.” Sherlock said the last sarcastically.

“Uh huh. Ok. We’ll come back to that one later…”

“I assumed so.” Sherlock assured him calmly.

“About this “Dhamphir” thing. Mind telling me what that’s supposed to mean?” John asked, deciding to continue humoring the man.

“A Dhamphir is part human, part vampire…” Sherlock began, pausing when John burst out laughing.

“You’re joking. You actually believe in vampires and whatever the hell this Dhamphir thing is?” John asked, laughter still in his voice.

Sighing, Sherlock said, “If you insist on interrupting me every time you don’t understand something, this is going to take a considerable amount of time. Time I’m not willing to waste.”

“Oh. Well, I apologize, your majesty. Do go on.”

“Was that sarcasm? No matter. Facts are facts and your are in fact a Dhamphir.”

John opened his mouth to ask a question.

“What did I just say? Try to control yourself and just sit there and be patient. You can ask all the questions that I’m willing to answer as soon as I’ve finished speaking. Just nod your head if you agree.”

John begrudgingly nodded his head.

“There you go! That wasn’t so hard now, was it!” Sherlock said to a John Watson who was by now, barely controlling his annoyance.

“Since it’s so obviously on display, let’s start with your temper. You were abused as a child...what did I just say? Keep quiet.

“So how do I know that? Well, you had to have a physical before you could join the army and notes were made of the many scars and burn marks on your body. Marks that clearly weren’t self-inflicted. Following that back to your childhood, well, you had a disproportionally high visit to hospital when compared to your uncle.”

“Uncle? What uncle? Fine.” John said when Sherlock just looked at him.

“This might be a little confusing so pay attention; I don’t want to have to repeat myself. I despise repeating myself.”

John thought that funny given how many times Sherlock had already repeated himself tonight but dutifully said nothing.

“So, back to Dhamphirs. A Dhamphir is created when a male vampire has sex with a human female - victim’s willingness not necessary - this almost always results in a pregnancy that normally causes the death of the mother during the birth of the baby which is a human/vampire hybrid.”

“As is always the case,” John said sarcastically. 

“Sorry. Do carry on.”

Sherlock gave John an annoyed looked but continued with what John considered a load of bollocks by a clearly disturbed man. 

“Your birth was the result of a vampire - whose identity is unknown because Mycroft is incompetent - raping your mother. Somehow, your mother survived the birth. Then came the decision as to what to do with you. 

“Your mother didn’t want you but your grandmother did so they - your grandmother - determined that the best way to handle this ‘born above the blankets’ scandal was to falsify the names of your parents on your birth certificate. Although if it had been up to your grandfather, you would have been given up for adoption. And had it been up to Harriet, you wouldn’t be here at all. Are we clear so far?” 

John nodded, clearly not believing a word of what this maniac was telling him. His mother was no longer alive and his father and Harriet avoided speaking with him at all costs, which was fine with him, so he guessed that he’d just have to bite the bullet and talk to his sister, Harriet. Just out of curiosity and not because any of this fantasy could possibly be true.

“So who is your real mother, I can see you wondering; Harriet Watson is your real birth mother.”

John’s jaw dropped open. This was a creative maniac, he’d give him that.

“And although it was true that Harriet had been raped by a stranger, she used that as an excuse to hide whom she thought was your real father which would have been your grandfather; he’d been raping Harriet since she was a child.”

John leapt from his chair, fists clenched, face red in anger.

“That’s it. I’ve heard enough of this bullshit. I’m leaving now. Never contact me again,” John said, turning to get his coat and leave.

“That might be a bit difficult considering that you’re the coroner and I’m a consultant to Scotland Yard on murders that they can’t seem to solve. Since this happens regularly, we will be seeing a lot of each other. Unless you choose to quit, which I don’t think you will, we’ll be seeing each other often. Now, sit back down, John and just listen. You can yell all you want when I’ve finished.”

John begrudgingly sat back down. 

“Both Harriet and your grandfather assumed that you were their child. He’d raped Harriet often enough to make that a reasonable assumption. I’m sure you’ve wondered why your “sister” hates you. You represented the result of a rape by a stranger, at best, or your grandfather at worst. And as it turned out, they were both wrong.” 

Sherlock gave John a look that said he was interested in John’s reaction to all of this information but in a clinical, impersonal way which made it seem worse to John. As if he was a project.

“Now I’m sure you’re wondering about the repeated rape of Harriet by her father - your grandfather, and if this was true, why didn’t your grandmother or your other “sister” do anything even after Harriet finally told them about it. The fact is, they just didn’t believe her. Or wouldn’t. Not to mention the fact that they refused to believe that such a thing would be going on without them knowing about it. Things became even worse for you after that.

Which leads us to the reason for your abuse. You were genuinely wanted by your grandmother - at first - but legitimate little Lawrence was just too adorable and eventually all the focus went to him. 

“Every time you tried to talk to them, to ask why they seemed not to like you, they believed that you were just jealous of the attention that they’d been lavishing on Lawrence. And Harriet reinforced that.” Sherlock paused again.

“I am sorry that you had to find out this way John, but you needed to know the truth and your family wasn’t going to tell you. Normally, I wouldn’t involve myself in such an issue - not really my area - but when we met, I could tell right away that you were a Dhamphir and not a child of incest as was thought all along. That changed things when a vampire was added to the mix. We don’t tolerate rape in the Dhamphir/Vampire community,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. 

John had closed his mouth by now but he sat, despite his mind’s unwillingness to do so, suddenly beginning to connect a few truths in the story. But his father would never have raped his sister. It was preposterous!

“I know that you haven’t seen your mother, er, Harriet, in years but she lives nearby. You can ask her about who she believes to be your father. She’d never think or believe you if you said that your father was a vampire. A truth you’re having a difficult time believing yourself. So I’d stick to your grandfather raping her story. Work your courage up and talk to her. You might be surprised at what she says.” Sherlock sat quietly, giving John time to process this seemingly unbelievable information.

John didn’t think, just immediately pulled his mobile from his jacket’s inner pocket and called Harriet. He’d kept track of her phone number all of these years, although he didn’t exactly know why. It wasn’t as if he’d ever planned to contact or see her again. He hadn’t spoken to her since he’d joined the army.

He dialed her number and waited, anxious to get her side of the story. Of course it wasn’t true but…maybe some of it was? He’d seen the way his father had touched his sister when he thought no one was looking. A quick touch of her breasts when he was walking by. Dad trying to hold Harriet’s hand and her shaking him off. Harriet never wanting to be alone with him. John had thought that it was because their father had become a violent alcoholic. But what if even a part of this was true. He had to know.

“It’s six o’clock in the fucking morning! Someone had better be dead! Who the fuck is this?”

“Harriet. It’s John,” he said softly.

“John? John who?” 

“John Watson.” He could hear Harriet sitting up.

“Why the hell are you calling me? It’s been decades since I’ve seen or heard from you and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it, you useless piece of shit,” Harriet all but screamed into the phone.

“I only have one question for you and then we can go back to being dead to each other.”

There was no reply for so long that John wasn’t sure that Harriet hadn’t just disconnected.

“Fine,” she said angrily. “Ask and then never call me again.”

Taking a deep breath, John prepared himself to ask the question;

“What’s this about you being my mother?”

He’d expected laughter or to be hung up on but instead the line was silent again.

“Who told you?” She whispered so softly that he barely heard her.

“It’s true?” John asked, too stunned to be angry.

“Yes. Happy now?”

“Not really. Is it true that dad is actually my father?” John asked, hoping against hope that it wasn’t true.

More silence.

“Yes. Goodbye John,” Harriet said and disconnected.

John’s brain was racing. Trying to parse everything. So… his father and his mother were his grandparents but his grandfather was also his father? His mother was now his grandmother AND his aunt? It made no sense. Then John thought a little more...so, that made Lawrence his uncle AND his cousin and his other sister, Catherine was now his half-sister and aunt? It couldn’t be true. It wasn’t just his imagination? They really HADN’T wanted him? And just what did that make him…

“Sit down before you fall down, John.” Sherlock said gently. He was actually beginning to feel something like sympathy for this man.

John, who hadn’t even realized that he’d stood up, collapsed back into the chair.

“Tell me more…” John said in a flat voice. 

And so Sherlock began telling him all of the things that he hadn’t known about himself, the things that had been kept hidden from him for 40 years and wondered; 

How many people actually knew the truth of his birth? Everyone but him? And felt his heart begin to break into a million pieces.


	6. All Is Not As It Seems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John drowns his sorrows at the local pub.

***

John sat alone in his favorite pub, drinking top shelf scotch. Sometimes savoring the taste, sometimes downing it quickly. It just depended on how hard a particular memory hit him at the moment. 

He’d just asked for the bottle at this point which the bartender dutifully brought over with a worried frown.

“John. It’s only 12pm, and you might want to, I don’t know, take a break and eat something?”

“I appreciate the thought,” John replied. “But this will do for the moment. You see, I just found out that I was already adopted and am celebrating the news. Cheers!” John held his glass up in a toast and quickly swallowed the scotch, enjoying the burn as it went down his throat.

“Oh. Um. Congratulations?” The bartender, Will, replied nervously. This was definitely NOT a happy occasion for John.

“Thanks. It’s not every day that your entire world is upended and everything that you thought you knew about yourself was a lie,” John replied, pouring two fingers of scotch into his empty tumbler.

“Do you have any friends or family meeting you here later who can make sure that you get home alright?” 

John laughed

“I’ve got all the family I need right here,” John said, slamming his hand down on the table. “I’m my own nephew AND cousin. Wait…I think there’s an uncle in there somewhere. Whatever. That doesn’t happen everyday. To me, at least. Actually, I haven’t really taken the time to figure it all out yet. For all I know, I’m my own grandfather too. Every time I try to put it together, I just get a headache.” John said, knocking back another glass of scotch. 

“Shouldn’t you be at work right now?” The bartender asked solicitously. 

“That’s the funny thing. I really should be but when I went in this morning, they told me that I was on leave for the next week which was news to me. I told them that I’d rather work but was told that the orders came from “higher up” and to “go home”,” whoever the hell that “higher up” is. Although I suspect that some tall, dark, curly haired man has something to do with it.” John said, shaking the last drops from a bottle that was now empty 

John said;

“Another bottle of your finest, barkeep!” John said, looking around at the empty booth.

“John, you’ve just drunk an entire bottle of scotch in under an hour. Maybe you should take a break,” the bartender put in tentatively.

“I come from a long line of alcoholics, one bottle of scotch is nothing. Do I seem drunk to you?”

Will had to admit that if he hadn’t known how much John had already had, he wouldn’t have been able to tell; although the fumes coming off of him might have given him a clue.

John handed the bottle back to Will, saying, “And bring more glasses for my new family!” Gesturing to the empty seats in his booth. “You know what? Never mind. I’ve got it covered,” John said, waving the bartender off.

Will dutifully turned around to pull another bottle of whiskey from the top shelf of the bar, uncorked it and set it in front of John.

“Maybe some pretzels at least?” Will tried again.

“Oh lord, if it’ll make you feel better, sure, bring some over,” John said, suddenly feeling a shiver run up his spine.

“Jesus Christ. Can’t I go anywhere without you following me around?” John said to the empty pub.

Will looked up from where he was filling a bowl with pretzels and looked in the direction John had just addressed. There was no one…suddenly the door opened and in strode a tall man with curly dark hair who made a beeline for John’s table and, uninvited and without a word, sat down.

“Can I help you, sir?” Asked Will.

“No thank you. I think you’ve helped enough,” Sherlock said condescendingly. Will hurried back behind the bar and began wiping it down while keeping an eye on John. The new fellow didn’t seem quite right. There was something odd about him and John definitely wasn’t happy to see him.

John poured another glass of scotch from the new bottle, swallowed it in one gulp and slammed the empty glass on the table.

“What do YOU want? More life changing news that I never knew or wanted to know?” John asked angrily.

“How much have you had to drink, John?” Sherlock asked.

“None of your business,” John answered belligerently.

“Well, it is my business as I don’t fancy carrying a drunk home.”

“As you can see, I am NOT drunk and you’re not carrying me anywhere. In fact, it’d be in your best interest not to touch me. You’ve had your warning, if you ignore it, I won’t be responsible for the consequences,” John said, gulping down another glass of scotch only to immediately pour another one.

“That’s a waste of a fine scotch, John. It’s meant to be savored, not used for shots.”

“I’ll drink my scotch however I want,” John said, throwing back the new glass of scotch and slamming the glass upside down on the table.

Examining the bottle, Sherlock said, “You’ve already almost finished this bottle. Are you filling these tumblers to the top now?”

“I’m in a hurry. What’s it to you? You’re not my father,” John said, then paused to take a closer look at Sherlock.

“Are you?” John swallowed the next glass and reached for the bottle which Sherlock easily pulled away from him.

“First of all, Dhamphir,” Sherlock said, pointing to himself. “So it’s impossible for me to be your father. Not to mention the fact that two men also preclude that from happening in both the human and supernatural worlds.” 

“Well, learn something new every day. Literally. Every fucking day. Bottle, please,” John made a ‘give me’ motion with his hand.

“Barkeep, just how much has our good Doctor Watson had so far this afternoon?” Sherlock asked Will with a heavy emphasis on “afternoon.”

“Ummm,” Will began nervously although he couldn’t have said why he was so nervous. It was a pub after all and John wasn’t visibly drunk. Plus, John’s flat was within walking distance of the pub so he wasn’t all that worried; although, truth be told, he’d been planning to cut him off after this last bottle anyhow. And not just because John had drunk the last bottle of that particular brand that he had.

“This is his second bottle and (somehow) he’s still not even drunk,” Will replied somewhat defensively. 

“Oh. He’s drunk alright. He just hasn’t stood up yet. That’s when it will hit.”

“Sherlock, I’m going to ask you one more time to leave and then I’m going to take you outside and kick your arse six ways to Sunday,” John said belligerently.

Taking a look at John, Sherlock said, “Raincheck? I won’t fight a defenseless man,” Sherlock finished.

“Defenseless?! I’ll show you defenseless!” John said, attempting to stand.

“Barkeep, I’d like to settle John’s tab before I drag this dumb arse kicking and screaming from your establishment.”

“It’s settled. John keeps a card on file.”

“I’d like to see today’s total,” Sherlock said while John was fighting with the arm of his coat now caught on the chair rail.

Carefully perusing the bill, Sherlock found everything to be in order and tipped the man.

“I find your management of your customers reprehensible. You should know when to stop serving someone alcohol. It’d be a shame if the authorities shut this place down,” Sherlock said, giving Will a grin that was somehow both evil AND terrifying.

“I don’t usually have anyone in here with that kind of ability to hold their liquor, not to mention the fact that John never drinks like that and he was having a bad day, so…”

“John’s special and I don’t need your excuses. Just don’t let it happen again. Especially with Doctor Watson. Are we clear?”

“Yes sir,” Will said timidly.

Sherlock walked back to John who had succeeded in detaching his sleeve from the chair but his coat was still over the back of said chair which was being dragged with him every time he tried to move.

“Will, what kind of half arsed chairs are these?” John asked, annoyed.

Will began to answer only to see Sherlock hold his palm up stopping his reply.

“Come now, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said as he freed John from his chair. “I think we’ll go to my flat, it’s closer.”

“Oh no. I’m not going there again! Nothing good ever comes from going to that place!” John yelled.

‘I should call the cops,’ Will thought as he picked up the telephone receiver. John was obviously being forced against his will to go to somewhere he clearly didn’t want to go.

Seeing Will pick pressing numbers into the old style phone, John said;

“Don’t bother calling the cops. They’re all in cahoots. Hah! Funny word. “Cahoots”,” John laughed as Sherlock finally got him into a standing position.

“You don’t need to call the cops,” Sherlock said to Will, putting a little extra push behind the ‘suggestion.’

“We’re old friends. He’s just excessively inebriated which I’m sure the police would like to address with you first,” Sherlock said, calmly yet threateningly. 

Will set the telephone back onto its receiver.

“Of course. It all makes perfect sense. See you next time, John!” Will said, waving at John.

“No. You won’t,” Sherlock said firmly as he pushed a staggering John Watson through the pub door.

Eyes squinting into the sunlight, John said; “Why’s it so fucking bright? Jesus! I can barely see!”

“That’s what happens when you’re new to day drinking, John,” Sherlock replied, linking arms with John as he tried dragging him down the street. He really didn’t want to have to carry this man to his flat. 

John was small but compact and although Sherlock could easily handle his weight, he didn’t want to draw attention to himself by carrying a clearly drunk man up to his flat. Not that he cared about rumors, not really. But Mrs Hudson would question him relentlessly and he didn’t feel up to it at the moment.

Fortunately, he was able to get through the door to 221B Baker Street without catching Mrs Hudson’s attention. Hopefully that old busy body next door hadn’t seen him either.

Sherlock easily carried John up the 17 steps to his flat, opened the door, and took John into his bedroom. He removed his jacket and shoes then dropped him unceremoniously onto his bed. It didn’t look like the most comfortable position but Sherlock had had enough of Doctor Watson and he wasn’t his butler.

Sherlock closed the door behind him and left John to sleep it off. Sherlock predicted that he’d be confronted by an angry John Watson within the next eight to ten hours. He found himself surprised that he was looking forward to it. The anticipation itself was exciting. Sherlock smiled and waited…

***

11pm, Sherlock’s Bed

John woke up with a pounding headache. Slowly looking around him, he didn’t recognize the room but he could smell Sherlock’s scent everywhere and there was a distinct chill up his spine which meant he was nearby. 

He patted his clothes and everything seemed intact. He felt no unwanted intrusions in his bum. His mouth did taste peculiar though. Oh my god! Had he blown Sherlock Holmes?!

“Ah. Good. You’re up.”

John twitched at that particular choice of words.

“Here is some water and paracetamol. I suspect that you’re going to need it.” Sherlock reached out to hand the glass and pills to John which he refused to take. Sherlock just set it on the nightstand instead.

“Did we…” John whispered. “Did we have sex last night?”

Sherlock raised himself to his full height, highly offended.

“I’m not a rapist and don’t take advantage of unconscious people!” Sherlock all but yelled.

“Shush,” John said, holding his head then reaching for the water and paracetamol which he was just discovering that he desperately needed.

“Fine. Fine. You’re no rapist. But why am I in, what I’m assuming is your bed?” John swallowed the pills.

“Your flat was further away and you seemed to be taking the news of your history poorly.” Sherlock said matter of factly.

“Gee. You think?” John set the glass back on the nightstand and tried to stand up.

“I wouldn’t recommend doing that quite yet,” Sherlock began as John fell flat on his face.

Putting his hand up John said, “Don’t say a word. Just get over here and help me up, you lanky git.

“How did you find me anyway?” John asked as Sherlock pulled him to his slightly wobbly feet.

Looking uncomfortable, Sherlock didn’t reply.

“What? Do you have spies watching me or something?” John laughed.

When Sherlock still looked uncomfortable, John said indignantly;

“Oh, god. You DO have spies following me!”

“No. No. Nothing like that. It just seems that since we met at the crime scene, I’ve been able to sense where you are and am able to find you. I normally wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint your exact location but I deduced that you’d be feeling the need to drown your sorrows. I could sense that you were…not feeling quite right. That and I also knew that the chances of you being in a pub right now was highly likely.”

“Jesus. You’re a psychic too?!”

“No. That was pure logic. The rest…sensing so much about one person…has never happened to me before.” Sherlock said, sounding distinctly uncomfortable. 

“Really? I wonder why?” John mused.

Sherlock had an idea but he knew John wasn’t ready to learn about Soul Mates so he said nothing.

“Ok. Out with it. I can’t take the suspense.” John said impatiently. He knew that Sherlock was hiding something.

“John. I really don’t think that you’re ready for this particular piece of information.”

“Try me,” John replied.

“Fine. Have you ever heard of Soul Mates?” 

John sat back down on the bed with a stunned thump.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” John exclaimed in disbelief.

“I am not “kidding” you. You’ll find that I don’t “kid.” I just didn’t think you were ready to handle it at the moment.”

“Well, too late now. Any other secrets that I should know about?” John asked but Sherlock remained quiet.

“Well, fuck me! Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse. I feel at a disadvantage sitting on your bed so let’s head to the living room to continue this enlightening and disturbing conversation.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock replied, surprisingly meek.

Taking a seat across from each other, John started;

“Ok. What information am I STILL missing,” John said, trying to remain calm. “Do I turn into a wolf during the full moon?”

“That’s werewolves, John. You’re being ridiculous.”

“There are werewolves too?!” John said, amazed and not a little nervous.

“No. Sorry to disappoint you but no werewolves,” Sherlock said sardonically.

“Can’t touch silver? Can’t enter a church? Despise bloggers?”

At Sherlock’s confused look, John said; 

“Don’t worry about it. I already despise them.”

“Can’t eat garlic?! Oh my god! But I LOVE garlic!” John exclaimed.

Sherlock slapped his hand to his head in frustration.

“Let’s go over this again…”

John leaned forward in rapt attention.

“Once upon a time…” Sherlock began.

“Don’t be condescending just because I’ve never heard of any of this stuff before,” John said, annoyed.

“Please accept my sincere apologies.”

John didn’t think that Sherlock sounded all that sincere but at this point, he was desperate for information.

“It was a dark and stormy night…”

“Stop it,” John said trying to hide a laugh.

“Where should I start?”

“With EVERYTHING about Dhamphirs and then work your way forwards. Don’t leave anything out. And then you can explain to me how SOMEONE had enough authority to forbid the CHIEF coroner from working for a week.”

“A long, long time ago…”

“I swear to god, if you start singing ‘American Pie’ I won’t be responsible for the beating you’re going to get.” John said, annoyed anew.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about and stop interrupting me or this is going to take forever.” Sherlock said, irritated.

“In the beginning…” Sherlock stopped and waited to see if John was going to complain. When he didn’t, he began again.

“In the beginning, there were only vampires, no Dhamphirs. Touching a human other than for drinking blood was considered not only disgusting but taboo.”

“And then?” John asked.

“And then a vampire saw a beautiful human female and decided that he had to have her. The woman didn’t agree. The vampire didn’t care. Nine months later, the first Dhamphir was born but the mother didn’t survive the childbirth as is most often the case.”

“How long ago was this?” John asked.

“Insignificant,” sniffed Sherlock.

“You don’t know, do you?” Mocked John.

“It’s unimportant to the story.”

“But you’re supposed to tell me everything, remember?” John leaned back in his chair and smiled.

“Fine. Useless information that I erased from my Mind Palace…no, I’ll tell you about that one later. Give me a minute…” Sherlock said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out his mobile. He pressed a button and hit ‘send.’

“Mycroft. When was the first Dhamphir born? Stop laughing. This is important!” 

Sherlock was quiet for a few moments then disconnected.

“Sometime in the 1400’s. Satisfied?” Sherlock asked.

“Not hardly but that’s good enough for now. Do I have super powers?” John asked eagerly.

Sherlock sighed and said; “This is going to be a long night…”


	7. Sherlock Meets Moriarty Over Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty has decided to stop waiting for Sherlock to find him so he sets up a meeting at the local diner in the middle of the night. A disagreement ensues - as you'd expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mad editing later as is typical.

***

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give up a little blood? Just a taste? Dhamphirs are just SO delicious and you rarely get this close to one - without them trying to kill you. So?” Moriarty asked hopefully.

“Afraid not. I’ll keep my blood on the inside,” Sherlock replied, unimpressed. “You’re not trying very hard to remain hidden. What brings us to this coffee shop in the middle of the night?”

“Well, you see,” and here Moriarty proceded to rip open and dump several packets of sugar onto their table only to begin drawing pictures in them.

“Don’t you just love Japanese sand art? So relaxing. So peaceful,” Moriarty continued swirling the sugar around into different patterns with his forefinger.

“You’re wasting my time. What do you want?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

“Wasting YOUR time! I’ve been trying for months to get your attention and you’ve given me nothing! Absolutely nothing. I just couldn’t let that stand, Sherlock. I really couldn’t. I’m not a patient man. Not to mention the fact that your brother is an interfering arse who’s been hiding all of the action from you and the Yard. Can’t do that anymore though, can he? Play time is over.” Moriarty said in a sing song tone of voice.

“That’s hardly my fault. My brother is an over protective nuisance.”

“That he is so I’ve finally decided to take matters into my own hands and pursue you directly,” Moriarty said, abruptly brushing all of the sugar to the floor.

“What’s to keep me from contacting Scotland Yard right now and turning you in?”

“Oh so many reasons,” Moriarty began ticking them off on his fingers.

“I’m a high level, quirky business man and that’s no longer even remotely considered odd anymore,” he laughed.

“And I’m rich. Filthy rich. I’d actually draw more attention if I behave in a - how should I put this - flamboyant manner. Hiding in plain sight, as it were.” Moriarty laughed again. 

“Not to mention the fact that I’ve been playing this game a lot longer than you. Why, you’re practically a baby when compared to me,” Moriarty snickered and proceeded to open and dump more sugar packets onto the table. A waitress came over to chastise him.

“Sir, you can’t keep wasting sugar like that and making a mess for the staff to clean up,” the waitress began calmly.

“That’s where you’re wrong. I could do this all night and not only would you be grateful for it, you’d lick it off of the floor if I told you to,” Moriarty gazed into her eyes, pushing the direction into her; making her think that it was her own idea.

“Yes, of course. I’ll send someone over to sweep it up right away.”

“No. I want you to personally lick it up as a favor to me. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you?”

“No sir,” the woman replied, confusion clearly writ across her face as she began sinking down to her knees fulfilling her order.

“Moriarty, stop this right now. It not only makes you look juvenile but it’s drawing unnecessary attention to us,” Sherlock said, annoyed. 

“You know very well that I could have this entire coffee shop cleaning the floor with their tongues and they wouldn’t remember a thing,” Moriarty smiled.

“What an pointless demonstration of your talents. What’s next? Having them set the building on fire with them still inside? I’m not impressed. I have the same capabilities. You. Are. Wasting. My. Time.” Sherlock said, annoyed.

“Ok, fine. You’re no fun. I don’t even know why I like you. Oh, yes I do! It’s that marvelous brain of yours. You’re a challenge and I haven’t met one of those in such a long time - if ever. Just imagine if we joined forces. We could rule the world!” Moriarty exclaimed, seeming overly excited by the idea.

“Not interested. I’m quite satisfied with the status quo,” Sherlock said, examining his nails disinterestedly causing Moriarty to lose his temper.

“Do NOT ignore me! I can make your life a living hell!”

“No thanks. My brother already fills that position.”

“If your brother’s so smart, why hasn’t he been able to catch me yet?”

Sherlock wondered that himself.

“Maybe he thinks that you’re beneath him. A waste of time.”

This did nothing but make Moriarty angrier.

“I could easily get to your brother - if he wasn’t surrounded by so many body guards. Clever man. And he’s very serious about his vetting process. Oh, I could eventually get past all that but why bother when you’re the one that I really want and you have absolutely no protection.”

“I’m nobody. I don’t require protection or we wouldn’t be here alone, casually drinking coffee in the middle of the night with no other patrons.”

“Oh, come now. Do you think that I’m so naive that I haven’t realized that your brother has you protected by snipers? We’re surrounded and I’m insulted that you think I’m dumb enough not to notice. Besides, I have a present for you.”

That peaked Sherlock’s interest although he didn’t allow it to show on his face.

“And what could you possibly have that would even remotely interest me?” Sherlock asked, barely containing his excitement.

Moriarty shoved a well thumbed file across the table to him.

Opening the file and giving the contents a cursory glance, Sherlock closed the folder and pushed it back across the table.

“A dossier on Doctor Watson? I’ve known all of this for quite a while,” Sherlock said dismissively, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice.

“That speed reading thing is going to be the death of you one day, Sherlock. Try again and this time, pay attention.” Moriarty pushed the file back over to Sherlock who opened it again with a put upon sigh.

“Yes. Yes. Adopted back into the family. His mother is also his aunt. Abused by his mother as a child. Again, this is nothing that I didn’t already know.”

“Do you really? Know everything about Doctor Watson though?”

Sherlock was curious but feigned disinterest. What could this man possibly have on John that he didn’t already know.

“Well, first of all, he’s a Dhamphir.”

“I already knew that.”

“Secondly, he’s your Soul Mate.”

Sherlock blanched.

“What makes you think that?” Sherlock asked trying to hide his nervousness.

“How do you think I know? I have spies too. I’m no fool. I can smell it on you. Smell HIM on you and I don’t like it,” Moriarty finished angrily.

“Even if that were true, why would you care?” Sherlock asked, knowing that he was in dangerous waters here.

“Well, you’re already mine and no one takes what is mine,” Moriarty hissed.

“How can I be yours? We’ve only just met. Not to mention the fact that we’re not Soul Mates.”

“So what? People who aren’t Soul Mates join together all the time.” Moriarty said, annoyed at Sherlock for being deliberately obtuse.

“That only happens when two people haven’t been able to find their true Soul Mate and settle for friendship. I already have a Soul Mate, and I don’t have, want or need friends. If that’s all, I have better things to do than talking to a half crazed vampire.” Sherlock stood up to leave.

“Have a seat Sherlock. I wouldn’t leave just yet were I you,” Moriarty said with an artificial calmness that was belied by the blackness of his eyes.

“I don’t think so. We’ve spoken long enough and I wouldn’t exactly call it productive.” Sherlock turned and began pulling his coat on.

“It’d be a shame if Doctor Watson should meet with a sudden accident now, wouldn’t it,” Moriarty stated baldly.

Sherlock stopped and turned around, looking Moriarty dead in the eyes.

“Should that happen, you’d be dead before his body was cold,” Sherlock said matter of factly.

“Oh, this is marvelous! I do love a good threat. Sit down, NOW!” Moriarty demanded. Sherlock reluctantly complied.

“What are you going to do? Have the Yard arrest me? I leave no evidence - unless I choose to, as you already know, and even if I did, Scotland Yard would be so confused that nothing would come of it,” Moriarty laughed. “Why, I could probably murder Watson right in front of their building and get away with it. Wouldn’t that be fun!”

Sherlock sat angrily planning John’s protection.

“Why, what’s to stop me from “convincing” some nurse to overdose him with insulin? Whoopsy! That’d be a nice clean kill and the nurse would just think she slipped. Perhaps an overdose of narcotics? That’d be a little tougher to pull off since he’s not a known drug user, still accidents happen all the time,” Moriarty laughed.

“You don’t touch him. Do you hear me?!” Sherlock said, menace clear in his voice.

“Or what? Do you think that I’m careless enough to run around without protecting myself?” Moriarty raised a finger and a red dot appeared over Sherlock’s heart. 

“I’d hate to have to kill you but I’d hate it even more to allow someone else to have you. We would be great together. How can you not see that?”

“You’re not my type. I prefer my partners sane.” Sherlock said, standing again, the laser following him.

“Oh, I’m your type. We’re perfect for each other. If killing Doctor Watson didn’t work, well, I’d hate to do it but I’d have to sacrifice you and that would be awful.” Moriarty’s mouth turned down in a pout.

“I’m warning you; stay away from Doctor Watson.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I never get my hands dirty.” Moriarty laughed. Waving his hand, the laser over Sherlock’s heart winked off.

“No one touches him. Do you hear me?” Sherlock snarled.

“I hear you alright too bad I have a terrible memory. Hopefully I can retain all of your threats,” Moriarty smiled like a cat who’d gotten into the cream.

“I hope for your sake that that doesn’t happen. I’d hate to have to kill you and, unlike you, I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. In fact, I’d make a special exception in your case,” Sherlock smiled.

“Oh, and don’t I feel special?! All this for little old me? I’m flattered.”

“You shouldn’t be. Don’t contact me again.” Sherlock said, standing once again and turning to leave.

“Oh, so you want the murder to be a surprise? Well, I wouldn’t have thought that you were one for surprises but have it your way.” Moriarty laughed.

Sherlock turned back and grabbed Moriarty by his lapels pulling him roughly up and out of his chair.

“Darling. This is Vivian Westwood. You’re wrinkling the cut!”

Sherlock pulled Moriarty close to his face and whispered, “I’m serious, don’t touch him.” Sherlock let go of his lapels and shoved him back in his chair.

“My, my, my. It’s like that, is it? I didn’t realize that you were already so attached. It’s been what, two weeks?” Moriarty rubbed his hands together.

Sherlock turned and headed towards the exit.

“See you next time, Sherlock. Maybe I’ll call first and arrange a date like I did this time, or maybe I’ll just leave a corpse on your doorstep. So many decisions, so little time.”

Moriarty’s insane laughter followed Sherlock outside of the diner where he could still clearly hear his laughter as he walked away.

He needed to get to John. Warn him. Convince him to move into 221B. Whatever it took. No one was going to touch John Watson. No one but him.


	8. More Questions, John?!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John still wants more information about his abilities. Sherlock's tired of explaining them to him.

***

“Can I leap off of tall buildings in a single bound?” John asked eagerly. 

“What? No. Of course not. You have leaping and jumping capabilities at great distances but I don’t recommend throwing yourself off of a building.”

“Would it kill me though?”

“If you landed on something sharp and it hit the right spot, then yes, it’d kill you,” Sherlock was tired of answering the same questions that they’d already been over for what seemed like a million times.

“Can I touch silver?”

“Could you touch silver before you knew that you were a Dhamphir?”

“Well, yes…”

“They why would knowing what you are make a difference now?” Sherlock said, exasperated.

“It’s not like I know how all of this works. I’d never even heard of Dhamphirs before now.”

“But I went over this with you the other day…” Sherlock started.

“Yes but I’d like to make sure that I understand everything.”

“I hadn’t thought you a dullard, John, but you’re rapidly changing my mind.”

“Just a few more.”

“Fine. What else?”

“Super strength?”

“Yes. Not lifting cars over your head strength but stronger than the average human or vampire.”

“How can I be stronger than a vampire?” John asked.

“You’re a half-breed, John. You’ve the best of both worlds. Religious objects don’t bother you. You could spend all day in a church if you chose to. And to answer your earlier question: yes, you can continue eating garlic,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Anything else?” Sherlock asked, tired of all of these questions.

“Can a vampire be killed by a wooden stake to the heart?”

“John,” Sherlock sighed, “anyone can be killed by being stabbed in the heart, with anything, wooden or otherwise. That includes Dhamphirs. And before you ask; no, we don’t rise from the dead.”

“Can we make other Dhamphirs?”

“No. Only a male vampire mating with a human woman can do that. And a vampire can only be created by another vampire by draining that person’s blood and then letting that person feed from them.”

“Ok. Basic movie of the week stuff. Got it.”

“I doubt it,” Sherlock said.

“About Soul Mates…,” John began.

Sherlock sighed. “I was wondering when you were going to get around to that.”

“Well, what does it mean? That we reallym, really like each other? Pal around together? Are we just great friends?”

“Oh, John. John. John. John. Do you know what “Mate” means?”

“Of course I do. Your partner. The person you sleep…have sex with. The person that you put above all others.”

“Very good. Now, do you know what a Soul is?”

“That’s a little more difficult depending on whom you’re talking to and which religion they believe in. Oh! Can silver burn me?!” John, feeling a little devilish, interjected.

“I just answered that one! No. Silver cannot harm you. Let’s get back to the Soul. What do you think it means?”

“It’s your deepest self. What makes you you. Your Soul goes on long after the body has ceased to be,” John finished. 

“Exactly! Now you’re getting it!” Sherlock exclaimed hoping that they were near the end of this particular tutorial.

“So…wait. You said that WE’RE Soul Mates,” said John.

“I did indeed,” Sherlock said, thinking that they were finally getting to the heart of the matter.

“Well. We can’t be Soul Mates.”

“And why is that, John?”

“The main reason being that I’m not gay,” John said firmly.

“John, you say that in every story so could we please skip all the angst and breast beating that we normally have to go through while I wait for you to realize that we really are meant to be together?”

“What are you talking about? We’ve never discussed this!” John said.

“Never mind, just briefly breaking the fourth wall to let people know that the writer realizes the “but I’m not gay” trope has been done to death in these fics.”

“Oooh k,” John said cautiously.

“Besides, there are no rules about sexuality when it comes to vampires and Dhamphirs. Your Soul Mate is your Soul Mate so you just need to stop acting like a child and get over it.”

“Vampires have Soul Mates too?”

“Yes but they’re not exactly monogamous. Think of it as having a spouse and concubines although that’s not really apt because the concubines aren’t particularly monogamous either,” Sherlock said, bothered by not having a more concrete definition immediately to hand. 

“I wouldn’t worry about the specifics of that one, John.” Sherlock hedged.

“Ok. Can we eat food?”

Sherlock just stared at John.

“Right. Right. I’ve been eating food all of my life. Got it.”

“That’s your human side.”

“Can vampires eat? 

“They can drink but food tends to make them nauseous so they mainly stick to blood unless they’re trying to pass for human.”

“Why would they do that?”

“The hunt, John. The hunt. Of course they can always grab someone off the street but they enjoy the element of seducing their victim. Not to mention the fact that they do have to make a living in this world to be anywhere near comfortable. It wouldn’t do to draw attention to themselves by leaving a swath of dead bodies in their wake.”

“Do…do Dhamphirs drink blood?” John asked, feeling slightly queasy.

“Yes but that’s most often done while being intimate with your partner or if your partner has been hurt, they can feed from you to help them regain their strength. Recovery depends on the amount of damage done to the body and blood loss, naturally.”

John ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, checking for fangs.

“I think it more likely that I’d take a chunk out of your flesh considering that I don’t have fangs.”

“Yes. You do.” Sherlock said patiently, moving into John’s space.

“What are you doing?” John asked. Not quite nervous, only curious.

Sherlock leaned in and whispered against John’s lips;

“Just a kiss, John. One kiss and you’ll have your answer.”

John felt his trousers growing uncomfortably tight. He wasn’t…he WAS! He was getting hard from just a whisper. No! He tried to push Sherlock away but he didn’t get very far.

“Surely you can handle one kiss? If nothing happens, then it’s fine and you’re right and it’s over. But if I’m right…”

“You’re not!” John said adamantly.

Sherlock leaned in closer to whisper into John’s ear;

“You’ll never know until you’ve tried,” Sherlock said, finishing by sucking on John’s earlobe.

“I’m not gay.” John said, not quite as convincingly.

“Well, then. You have nothing to lose. It’s not like I’m going to force myself on you. How insulting.”

Sherlock pressed his hips against John’s and could feel his arousal. He slid his clothed cock against John’s who was quickly wondering what was so wrong with being gay.

“There is no gay in our world, John,” Sherlock said, “your Soul Mate is your mate, no matter the sex of said mate.” Sherlock finished by first licking John’s lips then plunging his tongue inside of his mouth.

John reacted instinctively, pulling Sherlock closer to him and deepening the kiss.

“That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” Sherlock asked, leaning back a bit.

“No. It was quite good, actually,” John said as he reached down to unbuckle Sherlock’s trousers.

“John. What are you doing?” Sherlock asked as John next began unzipping his trousers.

“Now who’s being obtuse. I’m ravishing you,” John said, surprised at how fast he’d capitulated to doing something he’d never been interested in. 

“You’re taking this rather well…oof!”

“Quit talking and cooperate. I’m finding that this gay thing isn’t as awful as I thought it would be.” John said, pulling Sherlock by his partially unzipped trousers into his bedroom and shoving him back against the duvet.

“Won’t be needing these,” John made short work of throwing Sherlock’s shoes and socks behind him, then grabbing the waistband of his trousers, slid them neatly off in one pull.

“No pants. I like that,” John said with a smile as he began ripping Sherlock’s shirt open.

John then undid his own belt, pushed his trousers down - to hell with his shoes and socks - and lay his hot cock against Sherlock’s who moaned in response.

John leaned down and licked first one, then the other nipple. Sherlock was heavily panting by now and reaching up, ripped John’s jumper off until they were skin to skin and it felt amazing.

“Take your shoes and socks off, then those trousers. I don’t want anything between us,” Sherlock groaned.

John kicked off his shoes, pealed off his socks, and had his trousers removed completely all in under 60 seconds.

“So anxious,” Sherlock whispered raising his hips up to meet John’s cock again.

John pushed Sherlock’s hands behind his head entwining their fingers while he rubbed against Sherlock’s cock, peppering him with kisses. He licked Sherlock’s nipple on each upthrust until Sherlock was panting for it.

“Who’s in charge now?” John asked.

“I am!” Sherlock growled.

“Not in bed you’re not,” John said, leaning in to capture Sherlock’s mouth again in a searing kiss.

John continued holding Sherlock’s hands tightly against the bed and rubbed their cocks together until they were both close.

“Sherlock?”

“God. Yes. What?!” Sherlock moaned.

“Who’s the boss in the bedroom?”

“You are! You are!” Sherlock moaned as John’s fangs dropped down and sank them deeply into Sherlock’s neck with surprising ease at which point they both orgasmed simultaneously. John instantly felt power coursing through his body as he drank. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced.

They lay against each other, savoring the afterglow and sharing long, deep kisses until John stood up and looked at the mess they’d made of Sherlock’s abdomen.

“Wait for me?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded in silence, a small smile playing on his lips.

John, having already taken care of himself, returned from the loo with one very warm - bordering on hot - flannel and began to gently wipe the residue of their love making from Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock stretched luxuriously, arranging himself on the bed properly, taking John’s hand and pulling him into the bed with him.

Wrapping his arm around John, he pulled him close as John nestled into the space that had been created between Sherlock’s bicep and chest.

“Are you sure you’re not gay, John? That seemed pretty gay to me. Not that I’m complaining,” Sherlock teased, smiling down into John’s face.

“Ok. I might be a little gay. You just, you just smelled so good and suddenly I had to have you. You were irresistible. Is it always like this?”

“It never has been for me. It’s usually been more like a task. Must be a benefit of being Soul Mates.”

“That’s one hell of a benefit! You taste delicious, by the way,” John said, licking his lips.

Sherlock leaned over and pulled John close and kissed him passionately. 

“I intend to taste you later so you’d better rest while you can.

“I look forward to it,” John said, closing his eyes then snuggling further in, falling almost instantly into a deep sleep.

Smiling down at John, a sudden intense possessiveness fell over Sherlock: He’d kill anyone who dared lay a hand on his Mate, he vowed. Then he slowly fell asleep, happily wrapped in each others arms, both dreaming. John of their next kiss, and Sherlock of keeping John safe from all harm.


	9. I Want To Wake Up Next To You Every Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to convince John to move in with him. John says no so Sherlock sends the big guns in; Mycroft, and he's not too thrilled about it either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excessive editing later, as usual.

***

John awoke the next morning not remembering where he was or who had their arms wound tightly about him. Keeping his eyes closed, he tried to remember whom he might have gone home with and came up empty. Well, this was embarrassing. That hadn’t happened in years. He was naked so he doubted it was a chaste night.

He slowly cracked his eyes open only to widen them completely when he saw Sherlock’s silvery blue eyes smiling at him. ‘What the hell?’

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock, leaning down to kiss him.

“Sherlock…um…” John began uncomfortably.

“You can’t possibly have forgotten that we had sex last night.” Sherlock said, clearly affronted.

John blushed.

“It’s ah…it’s coming back to me.”

“Don’t tell me that you’re having second thoughts? I thought we’d resolved all that last night,” Sherlock said, lightly sniffing at John’s neck where his pulse was rapidly picking up speed.

“No. I’d just forgotten for a moment. This is quite a change in my lifestyle not to mention my life in general.” John’s eyes rolled to the back of his head as Sherlock slowly traced a path along his carotid artery with his tongue - collar bone to earlobe.

“I never did get to taste you last night,” Sherlock said as he began sucking on John’s neck.

“Well, uh…oh…that’s nice…” John sighed, eyes still closed.

“John…” *kiss*

“Yes…”

“I’d like you to move in with me.” *kiss*

“Hmm? What?” John said, still enjoying the attention that Sherlock was lavishing on his neck.

“I said that I’d like you to move in with me.” Sherlock repeated, soundly slightly annoyed at having to repeat himself.

“I already have a home and we haven’t even known each other that long,” John said, sitting up beginning to look for his clothes which were scattered about the floor. 

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked.

“Home to shower, then work.”

He was about to stand and begin gathering everything to get dressed when Sherlock reached over and pulled him back down into a sitting position on the side of the bed.

Sliding closely behind John, Sherlock spread his legs open entwining first one leg then the other around John’s waist.

John felt Sherlock’s tongue slowly glide along his main artery again and leaned his head back to allow better access.

“Don’t you feel it? That we should be together?” Sherlock said softly.

“I…I’d like time to get to know you…” John said, sighing as Sherlock began sucking on his neck.

“But we’re Mates, we should be together. That’s how it’s always done. If you’re lucky enough to have found a Mate, the next step is cohabitation. It’s the natural progression of finding a Mate.” Sherlock’s fangs dropped down and he grazed John’s neck, hesitating when he reached the part of the artery where he could feel where John’s heart beat the fastest.

“I just need some…that’s really nice…time,” John finished.

“Is there anything I can do to convince you?” Sherlock asked, pushing his cock against John’s arse.

“No. I, uh, this isn’t an easy…” John gasped when Sherlock took his cock in hand and began a slow, graceful stroke along his length.

“You’re absolutely sure? There’s nothing? Nothing I can do to change your mind?” Sherlock rocked his cock against John’s arse while picking up the speed of his strokes.

“Nah…nothing…oh god!” 

Sherlock continued stroking John’s cock, squeezing it from time to time while teasing his neck with his teeth. John felt himself getting close. And then he was coming in Sherlock’s hand, shuddering at the release. Sherlock chose that moment to sink his fangs deeply into John’s neck drawing his blood into his body while climaxing on John’s back. 

“That was…that was amazing,” John said, coming down from the high of being bitten and coming simultaneously.

“You could shower here,” Sherlock offered, licking the puncture wounds he’d made in John’s neck. He tasted even better than Sherlock had thought he would.

John felt sticky and really didn’t want to go home like that so he agreed; Sherlock followed. John sighed beginning to pull his clothes off yet again.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?”

“I’m just going to help you wash your back. It’s very messy,” Sherlock said, trying his best to look innocent.

“Fine. If you’re coming in, come in,” John said, pulling the shower curtain open wide enough so that they could both fit inside.

There was a good deal of soap used and by the end of the shower, John felt as if no part of his body had been left unclean.

***

“So. Move in with me.” Sherlock stated baldly once the’d gotten out of the shower and were both in the process of dressing.

“No. I’m not ready. I need to see if we’re compatible first.”

“But the frottage. The masturbation. You must agree that they were both amazing.”

“It was and I hope we revisit those activities and more, in the near future. It’s just…I don’t move in with the first person I have chemistry with.”

“Chemistry? We’re Mated! Our relationship is biologically determined. You can’t just walk away from that.”

“I’m not walking away, I just want to take things slow.”

Sherlock was dumbfounded. He was being rejected. After experiencing…some sort of strong emotion, he hadn’t identified it yet but knew that he wanted to feel it again…to analyze it. Not because he was getting emotionally attached to John. Not Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock brought out the last thing he’d wanted to use to keep John with him;

“I had coffee with Moriarty the other night,” he said casually.

John paused in the act of pulling on his jumper. Poking his head through, he asked;

“The killer? You had coffee with the killer?” John asked, pulling his jumper down.

“He wanted to talk to me,” Sherlock said cagily.

“About what? What could that murderer possibly want to talk to you about?” John asked, anger clear in his voice.

“You, actually.”

“Me? What about me?” 

“He’s jealous of you and wants me for himself,” Sherlock replied.

“Well, bollocks to that! He can’t have you! You’re my Mate!” John exclaimed.

“How could he even know that we’ve started a relationship?” John demanded.

“He could smell you on me. He knew from my scent that we were Soul Mates. He didn’t take it well.”

“Did you know this bloke before? Gone out with him before? No one becomes this attached to someone they’ve never even met before,” John asked, surprised to find that he was jealous.

“No. It’s the first time I’ve met him but apparently he’s been watching me for quite some time and finally decided to start leaving notes to get my attention…”

“On people’s tongues; whom he’s been murdering! Has he never heard of email?”

“Think of it more like a cat bringing a kill to your door as a sign of affection.”

“The hell you say! He doesn’t know you. He’s just been stalking you! Leaving you love notes on…on the people he’s killed! You sound almost flattered by this!” John exclaimed.

Sherlock had the good grace to blush and turn his head away.

“That’s it. You like it! You like the attention. You do! That makes you no better than him! Encouraging him by meeting with him!”

“I had to go,” Sherlock said, looking up at John solemnly.

“Why? What was so important that you had to meet with that…that monster?!”

“He threatened to kill you, John. If I don’t give you up to be with him, he’ll kill you. He means it, John. I’ve just found you and I’m not giving you up for anyone or anything.”

“Why didn’t you just call Scotland Yard and have him picked up when you were supposed to meet?” John demanded.

“And tell them what exactly? He leaves no evidence and he’s a well respected member of society. I’d look like a fool without proof and that’s what I plan to do. Get proof,” Sherlock finished.

“I don’t want you meeting with him again,” John said angrily. 

“If he threatens you, John, I have to go.”

“I can take care of myself!” John huffed.

“He’ll send his lackeys for you. And even a Dhamphir is unlikely to escape several vampires when cornered. You can’t fight them alone. This is all new to you. You’d be at a disadvantage and then they’ll bring you to Moriarty and he’ll kill you and that’s something I just can’t allow. Please move in with me so that I can protect you,” Sherlock implored.

“I’m not afraid of this Moriarty arse. I can take care of myself.”

“And I’m telling you; he’ll send his people for you and you won’t be able to fight them all. Please, John.” Sherlock reached out and put a hand on John’s forearm.

“I will not be blackmailed into a relationship, Soul Mate or no. I’m going to work now. We’ll talk later.” John turned to leave the bedroom.

“What time is your shift over? I’ll wait for you and then we can talk some more.”

“I don’t need a babysitter. I’ll call you when I get home.” John walked through the bedroom door, picked up his coat from the coat rack without even a backwards glance at Sherlock. 

“John. It gets dark early in the winter. Why won’t you listen to me? You’re not safe. Not anymore.” Sherlock said to the now empty room.

Picking up his mobile, he hit speed dial, his call was answered on the first ring.

“Yes, brother dearest. To what do I owe the honor of this call?” Mycroft asked condescendingly.

“I need a favor…” 

***

6pm

John’s shift was over and he was preparing to walk home when he noticed a black limo parked in the hospital round about, the “driver” standing at attention by the side of the car. John knew a military man when he saw one. He made a cursory note of it and continued walking past.

“Doctor Watson,” the man said.

John stopped walking and looked back at the mention of his name.

“Do I know you?”

“My boss would like to speak with you for a few minutes,” the chauffeur said, opening the back door where another man sat, looking at him in a calculating manner.

“Um, that’s ok.” Was this that Moriarty character that Sherlock had warned him about? Pretty ballsy to try and pick him up right at the entrance of St Bart’s.

The man called out of the car to him;

“I’m afraid that I really must insist, Doctor Watson. I mean you no harm. I’m here on behalf of Sherlock Holmes who is very concerned for your safety.”

“Yeah. Well. That’s what a murderer would say, wouldn’t he? When he was trying to get you to stupidly enter his car. I’m going to have to pass.” And so saying, John continued on his way.

The impeccably dressed man sighed, exited the vehicle, and directed his driver to follow them closely on the walk to Doctor Watson’s flat. Sherlock was going to owe him big for this. Mycroft despised walking.

“Stop following me,” John said without turning around.

“I’m Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock’s older brother. He’s sent me here to talk some sense into you although clearly that’s a waste of time, as I expected.”

John stopped walking and turned around to face the man. He was impeccably dressed down to the watch on a chain on his vest and an…umbrella? It wasn’t supposed to rain, was it? John didn’t really pay attention to the weather reports. It didn’t matter to him one way or another. He went from spot A to spot B regardless of the weather so it didn’t affect him at all.

“You don’t look like Sherlock,” John said suspiciously.

“Yes. Thank god for small favors,” Mycroft said imperiously.

“How can Sherlock have a brother? I thought that Dhamphirs could only be created by a vampire having sex with a human woman.”

“Our parents have been happily married for decades. I assure you that we were both born consensually.” Mycroft loathed having to explain this to what was quickly seeming - in his opinion - to be a moron. Well, you can’t chose your Soul Mate. If Sherlock wanted this…this man, then Mycroft would make that happen. He didn’t have to be happy about it though.

“Do you have any proof of this relationship?” John asked suspiciously. He was fully aware of the ease of making fake IDs but he still wanted to see some kind of proof that this man was who he said he was. Just then, his mobile rang. He kept his eyes on ‘Mycroft’ while he answered it.

“John.” Came the familiar voice.

“Sherlock. There’s a man here pretending to be your brother and he expects me to get in his car with him. Not happening.”

“John. Describe the man to me.”

“Tall, pompous prig who’s full of himself,” John said, looking ‘Mycroft’ over.

“And he’s walking around with an umbrella on a perfectly clear night. You ask me, there’s something wrong with him.”

Mycroft sniffed

“That’s Mycroft, alright. Would you please do me the favor of getting into his vehicle. I fear that I’ve mucked things all up and he would probably be the better choice to explain things to you.” Sherlock admitted begrudgingly.

“I still think he’s a pompous arse,” John said, again looking Mycroft up and down, much to the man’s annoyance.

“I don’t know what else there is to tell me. You’ve already explained everything, haven’t you?”

“Well…I’m not so sure and as much as I am loathe to admit it; Mycroft is better at these sorts of things than I. Could you please go with him? For me?”

John sighed.

“Fine, but if I end up murdered with a note pinned to my tongue, you’ll only have yourself to blame.” John said, disconnecting the call without waiting to hear Sherlock’s response.

“Ok. Where are we going?” John asked resignedly.

“Somewhere private where we won’t be spied upon.”

“Great. Now I’m involved in cloak and dagger shit. That’s just perfect. When did that car get here?” John asked, not having noticed the car following them. No wonder Sherlock was worried about him being picked off by Moriarty. He needed to pay more attention to his surroundings.

“What do you do for a living, anyhow, Mycroft? Riding around London in a limo isn’t cheap.”

“Nothing special. I occupy a minor position in government.”

“Uh huh.”

John thought this was said a bit smugly and sounded like a lie to him but what the hell. You only live once.

The chauffeur had gotten out of the car and opened the door so that Mycroft and John could enter. The door closed behind them and John turned to Mycroft and asked;

“Why are you even involved in this?”

“I wonder that myself. However, I can smell Sherlock’s scent mingled with yours so you’ve clearly exchanged blood.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“My dear Doctor Watson, it means everything. My brother desires someone for the first time in his life and I’m going to make sure he gets what he wants and what he wants is you.” Mycroft finished.

“I must be in the looney bin…” John said, exasperated.

“No, but if you break my brother’s heart, I can assure you that you’ll end up somewhere much worse.”

After that, they continued on in silence; Mycroft annoyed, and John worried. 

‘John Watson, you, my friend, are a complete and utter moron with no sense of self preservation,’ he thought to himself.

‘I’m heading willingly into the lion’s den, god help me.’ 

John thought about nothing else after that. He’d cleared his mind. He just wanted to get to wherever they were headed and get this over with.

’Sherlock, you’d better be right about this or I’ll kill you myself.’


	10. That's One Way Of Looking At It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft informs John of the changes to his lifestyle. John doesn't take it well.

***  
Three Hours Later

“That was a hell of a drive for a few questions,” John said, exasperated.

“We like to make sure that our interviews…are secure. This place,” Mycroft said looking up and around then returning his gaze to John. “Is very secure.”

“If you say so,” John said, checking out his environment which seemed to be the sub level of a parking garage. He had no idea how you’d go about keeping an entire garage secure and frankly, didn’t give a damn. After a two hour drive to god knew where, and an hour interrogation of his background, he just wanted to go home. 

“Are we done here? I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish but I’ve had enough.”

“Not quite, Doctor Watson. We’ve yet to address your current relationship to my brother,” Mycroft said, opening the folder on his lap and glancing at its contents. Closing the folder he returned his gazed to John.

“What “relationship?” We haven’t even known each other for more than ten days. I don’t know about your brother but I’m not in a relationship with anyone.”

Slapping the folder on his knee, Mycroft said;

“We both know that’s not true. You’re Soul Mates. I know that Sherlock has tried on several occasions to ensure that you understood what that entailed.”

“Look. A week and a half ago, I’d never even heard of a Dhamphir much less Sherlock Holmes. Not to mention the fact that vampires exist! With as much time as he spends in the morgue, you’d think that I might have met him before now.”

“If he’d wanted you to see him, he would have allowed you to see him but it was unnecessary. And, at the time, no one had been close enough to determine that you were a Dhamphir much less that you were clueless about your own nature. We were probably more surprised than you at this turn of events.”

“Yeah. I don’t think so,” John said, annoyed. “It’s not every day that someone accosts you and tells you that not only are you a ‘supernatural being’ you’re something called a ‘Dhamphir. Vampires are real, by the way and we’re Soul Mates so we’re compelled to be together. Move in with me.’ Bollocks to that.”

Mycroft gave a little moue of distaste saying, “There’s no need to be vulgar, Doctor Watson. No one is more dismayed by THAT particular turn of events than I myself. Sherlock was fine on his own until you came along and made yourself his weakness. And now he’s obsessed with you.”

“And that’s my problem how?” John asked with a sneer.

“You’ve had sex…no. Not actual intercourse,” Mycroft said seeing that John was about to interrupt, “But the fact is that you have both exchanged blood with each other which…and let me put this in a way that even you can understand - sealed the deal. You might never have had intercourse but once you’ve both…” Mycroft paused, looking faintly sick. “Orgasmed and exchanged blood with your Soul Mate, you’re bound together. Didn’t Sherlock tell you that?”

John sat still, staring at Mycroft, mouth agape, saying nothing.

“Doctor Watson?” No response. “John? I take it from your reaction that you were unaware that you’d completed the ritual?”

Still no response.

“Well, I guess that answers that question although, to be fair, it’s highly likely that Sherlock was unaware of the procedure of becoming bound to a Soul Mate. He never expected to have one; his work has always been his life. He wasn’t looking for anyone and then you all but dropped into his lap. No. The more I think about it, there was no reason for him to have more than the most basic of information regarding mating. He has no use for things like that. He prefers to save his brain for what he considers ‘pertinent’ data. He wasn’t looking for a Mate, so he didn’t need useless facts and deleted it. Unfortunately, you knew even less than Sherlock and now, well, here we are. Have you anything to say? Questions?”

Shutting his mouth, John began to rapidly fire questions at Mycroft.

“How could he not know? He tricked me.”

“I can assure you that he did not. He’s been going on instinct rather than intellect. He’ll consider it a weakness of his transport - and he’d be right. He’ll hate that. I can’t wait to tell him,” Mycroft said, smirking.

“So I’m stuck with him? WE’RE stuck together? Forever? There’s no way out of this? At all? I find that difficult to believe.”

“Believe what you’d like, Doctor Watson, it still won’t change the fact that you and my brother are now one. That’s more binding in our world than marriage, which we once did for public display but since it’s now common for people to live together, that’s no longer ‘required’ to maintain a facade anymore. No, I’m afraid that you’ll be together until death do you part.”

Looking at John speculatively, Mycroft continued;

“Don’t get any ideas. I’d hate to have to kill you.”

“You’re joking.” John examined the rigid set of Mycroft’s shoulder’s, the tightness of his lips…

“You’re not joking,” John said in a shocked voice.

“No. I never joke.” Mycroft said without a hint of a smile.

“Well, what if I don’t want to live with your brother? Will I die from a broken heart? We live in the same city. That’s close enough. I’ll see him in the morgue a lot now that he’s no longer hiding from me.”

“Sherlock led me to believe that you were looking for a flat share.”

“Yes. I am. I was. Until all of this happened. I’ve let my lease go month to month for the moment. I’m not jumping into a relationship with anyone before I even know if I like them much less ‘know’ that they’re the ‘one.’ Didn’t your brother tell you that?” John asked, frustration clear in his voice.

“Of course he did. I’m only here to…assist you in making the right decision.”

“Was that a threat because it sounded like a threat.” John said. 

“Think of it as more of a suggestion. A very strong suggestion.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” John said sarcastically.

“Oh, and about that other thing that you mentioned. I’m Sherlock’s “weakness?” I haven’t asked him for a thing, nor will I ask anything of him. I’ve only just met him for Christ’s sake. I don’t see how I could be his weakness; whatever that means.” John demanded.

“I’m aware that you’ve seen at least one of the notes that Moriarty has left for Sherlock…” Mycroft began.

John shuddered.

“Yeah, a darning needle through the tongue isn’t something I’m likely to forget any time in the near future.”

“Yes. Moriarty can be crass at times. In any event, all he needs to do is get near you and/or Sherlock and he’ll know without being told, that you’ve now bonded. You positively reek of it. There’s no way he couldn’t know.”

“Yeah. Sherlock said that. When they met for coffee the other night, Moriarty could smell me on him. We hadn’t even exchanged blood at that point.”

“Sherlock met Moriarty …for coffee? He never told me that.” Mycroft said, flabbergasted. 

“Yeah, well, welcome to the club.”

“That changes things dramatically. It’s now imperative that you move in with Sherlock as soon as possible so that he’s able to ensure your safety. I’ll have people on the outside making sure that you’re not approached by any unsavory characters.” Mycroft said matter of factly, leaning on the handle of his umbrella and preparing to stand.

“No.”

“No?” Mycroft asked.

“No to both of those things. I’m not moving in with him and I’m not having your…whatever they are, stalking my every move.”

“Well, on the first one, I’ll leave that to Sherlock to…convince you, however, you have no control over being, as you say, “stalked.” I care about my brother very much, Doctor Watson. I won’t allow you to hurt him. If he wants you, he shall have you.”

“Now wait a minute! Don’t I have a say in any of this!” John exclaimed, leaping up from his chair.

“As I’ve already said; about guarding you, no. About moving in with Sherlock? Yes, you have a choice but I doubt that you’ll be able to hold out for long. Once Sherlock has focused his entire attention on the goal of moving you in, in you shall be. Best to accept it now rather than fight the inevitable. Think of Sherlock as water dripping on a rock, gradually wearing it away. ”

“And I suppose I’m the rock?” John asked, fists clenched.

“Sherlock has logic and facts on his side. That’s an almost impossible combination to beat. I doubt you’ll last through the end of the week before we’re packing you up to move.” Mycroft said, turning to leave.

“So. That’s it, then? I’m stuck with Sherlock whether I like it or not? And I’m stuck with your goons following my every move?” John demanded.

“They’re hardly…”goons,” Doctor Watson. “They’re MI6 agents with orders to protect you at all cost.”

“But…why? Why am I suddenly so important?”

“Because Moriarty is going to come after you, especially now that he knows that you’re Sherlock’s Mate. We need to stop him from capturing you at all costs. Sherlock is a valuable asset to the government with a brain full of secrets and now he’s vulnerable - because of you. He’d move heaven and earth to find you and if that meant giving up state secrets, he wouldn’t hesitate to do so. Now, we have a long drive back to the city and I’m sure you’d like to get some rest before you have to be at work in the morning.”

“Oh. I still get to work?” John said sarcastically to Mycroft’s retreating back.

“Of course. A bored Doctor Watson is a dangerous Doctor Watson and we can’t have that now, can we? Come along, Doctor Watson, your chariot awaits.”

John slid into the seat across from Mycroft in the limo while the driver shut the door. He looked angrily at his feet.

“I know how to protect myself. I have military training,” John muttered.

Mycroft, taking note of the dark look on John’s face said;

“This is a little different, Doctor. The enemy is virtually invisible and you won’t have backup. A team of Moriarty’s thugs are going to be sent after you. You can have all the training in the world but even you won’t be able to defeat a group of vampires attacking you simultaneously. It’s for your own good. We’re just trying to keep you safe. Believe me, you don’t want to be at the mercy of Moriarty. He’d make being a soldier seem like a visit to the spa.”

“So, what? This really is my life now? My freedom is gone and that’s it? I wish I’d never met Sherlock Holmes!”

“As do I, Doctor. As do I.”


	11. The Calm Before The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes a hash of his relationship with John creating the perfect setting for Moriarty to put his plan of kidnapping Doctor Watson, in action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd. Not Brit picked. Will edit obsessively at a later date, as usual.

***

Two Weeks Later

Midnight

It had been exactly two weeks since John’s shift at St Bart’s had been changed from day to evening and it made Sherlock uneasy. Instead of 8am to 5pm it was now 3pm to midnight and despite Sherlock demanding that Mycroft have John put back on daylight duty, Mycroft either wouldn’t or “couldn’t” do anything about it.

“My hands are tied in this matter, Sherlock. Doctor Watson has refused the, ah, “opportunity” to go back to his original shift. There is no valid reason for me to exert any pressure on forcing him to comply - at the moment. It has been two weeks since his schedule was changed to evenings and in that time, no one has attempted to approach Doctor Watson during his nightly walk from the hospital to his flat. What would you have me do, brother? I assure you that I realize that this is the calm before the storm but until Moriarty makes a move, I can’t justify exercising more authority over the doctor’s schedule at the moment. ”

“What do you mean, you “can’t justify” having John’s old schedule reinstated?! You’re on the Board of Trustees! The Holmes’ have contributed hundreds of millions of pounds to St Bart’s. Not to mention the expense of new buildings “specializing” in disease control. I think that you CAN but WON’T, correct this…this mistake.” Sherlock huffed.

“Very well. Certainly I could exert my power as a Board member or even as a minor official in the government…”

Sherlock snorted.

“…however, I see no reason to do so. Not to mention the fact that I suspect that Doctor Watson would be quite vocal and uncooperative regarding a shift change made for - what would seem to him - no justifiable reason. I can’t very well tell the Board that Doctor Watson must have daylight hours in order to avoid being taken by vampires. Use that brilliant mind of yours and try being reasonable - for a change. In any event, I have agents watching Bart’s. I have agents watching his flat. I have agents following him to and from those locations. I even have agents watching the pub he frequents and since your flat is constantly being monitored, the good doctor’s trips there - of which there has been exactly one - are also being monitored. I assure you that he is being well protected.”

“So there are agents located within St Bart’s, then? Within John’s department?” Sherlock demanded.

First looking heavenward, Mycroft returned his gaze to Sherlock’s angry face and with a put upon sigh, said;

“I don’t have agents in St Bart’s. It’s unnecessary. A code is required to enter the lab which is the only way to gain access to the morgue. And the door from the morgue to the hallway opposite is exit only - no one’s getting in that way either. You’re mating instinct is making you emotional and overprotective, Sherlock. Pull yourself together; you’re making a fool of yourself.”

“I am NOT being emotional and this so called ‘mating instinct’ is in no way affecting my behavior. I control my emotions. They do not control me! And you know very well that passcodes and ‘exit only’ doors will do nothing to deter Moriarty from taking John WHEN he finally decides to do so.” Sherlock finished angrily.

Mycroft, taking advantage of his extra two inches of height, looked down at his baby brother and gave him a look of condescending pity, which only served to further enrage Sherlock. 

“Mycroft…,” Sherlock began heatedly.

Mycroft, making a show of lifting the pocket watch chained to his vest, popped the cover open, glanced at the time before closing it with an audible snap and arranging it neatly from whence it came.

“I’ve already wasted more time on this than I have available so I’m afraid we’re going to have to save this, ah, discussion, for a later date.”

“Wasting time?! Wasting time?! Arranging for the safety of my Mate is NOT a waste of time, Mycroft! And you’d understand that had you a mate of your own; if not only to watch your weight for you. Especially since you’re clearly incapable of doing so yourself.” Sherlock said antagonistically. 

Mycroft was in no way fat and he knew it. He’d been heavy as a child but had worked hard, still worked hard, at keeping the extra weight at bay. Still, it was one of Mycroft’s weaknesses that Sherlock knew and exploited at every opportunity. That and being wrong - about anything. Sherlock enjoyed nothing better than driving home one of his barbs. Mycroft rarely made an error so attacking his weight was the next best thing and it hit its mark every time.

“I thank you for your concern, Sherlock, but I am quite fine as I am. Unlike yourself; I will not literally stumble over a mate. And I’m more than capable of managing my weight on my own so I’m afraid that your pathetic attempts to drag me into an argument in the hopes of wearing me down until I give in to you, are for naught. Another time, perhaps?” Without another word, Mycroft walked past Sherlock, the tapping of his umbrella fading into the distance until it could no longer be heard.

“You always have to have the last word, don’t you, Mycroft.” Sighing, Sherlock exited the government building and caught a cab to 221B planning to work on Moriarty’s murders. He’d been suspiciously quiet since their conversation over coffee and Sherlock sensed that was about to change, hence the meeting with Mycroft. 

That Sherlock had had the patience to wait two weeks to have this discussion, and in person no less, spoke a great deal of his concern for Doctor Watson. Well, it wasn’t something so simple as ‘concern.’ It was logic and logic dictated that Moriarty had been quiet long enough.

Moriarty was planning something and it was something for which Sherlock was preparing himself in equal parts excitement and dread. 

***

One Week Later

Ever since John had been switched to night shift three weeks ago, Sherlock had begun waiting for him outside of the hospital every night to ensure that he made it home safely. Mycroft’s people were there, as had been promised, but no one could do a better job of keeping his Mate safe than Sherlock himself. It was only a matter of time before Moriarty tried something; he’d been quiet for far too long. And so Sherlock had made it his personal duty to escort John home from work every evening.

***  
12:45am

Sherlock stood impatiently waiting for John’s shift to end. The shift was supposed to be over at midnight and wasn’t John the boss? It usually took John approximately 23 minutes to finish his paper work and another seven minutes to pack up and leave. This could vary by as much as 30 minutes, the unpredictability of which Sherlock found exceedingly irritating. 

By some miracle, Sherlock knew better than to complain about this to John - until tonight. Sherlock was apparently in what Molly called, the “wooing stage” of the relationship. How tedious and unnecessary. John was already his Mate and mates lived together. 

Once John moved in though, he knew that he’d realize that of the two of them, Sherlock’s work was clearly the more important of the two and therefore took priority over anything John might have going on. 

After all, John’s “patients” were already dead while Sherlock was trying to save lives. Well actually, he only solved crimes for fun and to alleviate boredom, he didn’t really care if people died. In fact, he preferred that they do. If no one died then Sherlock wouldn’t have any work and if Sherlock didn’t have any work, neither would John so he should be grateful to have Sherlock’s. In fact, he was actually doing John a favor; without Sherlock’s help, John would wander aimlessly about the lab trying to wrack his brain for something to do. 

This fact was so obvious that Sherlock didn’t feel the need to discuss it with John. One potential relationship problem solved. Sherlock thought people made too much about the difficulty of making relationships ‘work.’ He’d already found a solution to a problem without even so much as involving John. This was going to be effortless. It never occurred to Sherlock that people died from reasons other than being murdered; he just pictured John sitting around, waiting for someone to give him something to do.

Sherlock was trying to hide his impatience and felt that he was being successful. Unfortunately, Sherlock and patience had never met. Or, if they had it had been only by benefit of Sherlock being unconscious at the time which could hardly be considered patience.

From what Sherlock had been able to cobble together from Molly’s ramblings, the basic requirement of convincing someone that your intentions were sincere involved pretending to be everything that the other person thought they wanted. She’d called this the “honeymoon period.” Once you’d moved in together, you could be yourself again. 

Sherlock had always thought that a “honeymoon”was some sort of vacation that newlyweds were forced to take once they were wed but if all it entailed was him being on his best behavior for a month or two until John was well and truly captured, he could do that. He thought he could do that. Well, maybe not for two months. Maybe one? Two weeks? That was more than reasonable! John couldn’t possibly expect to still be in the honeymoon phase after he’d moved in, could he? Actually, as far as Sherlock was concerned, the honeymoon phase was over once John moved in. Sherlock had him and could immediately go back to being himself. John had to know how this worked; better than Sherlock, at least.

***

1:30am

Sherlock walked to meet John at the hospital entrance. He looked tired and no wonder! He should have been done and out by 12:30am at the latest.

“Finally!” Sherlock exclaimed.

As soon as John saw Sherlock’s face, he put a hand up to stop whatever Sherlock might have been about to say and just began the walk to his flat.

“Why does it take so long to leave? What could you possibly be doing in there that couldn’t wait until tomorrow? It’s not like you’re saving lives.” 

“I don’t want to hear it, Sherlock. No one is making you walk me home every night after work. Actually, I’d prefer it if you stopped showing up at all,” John said, picking up his pace a little. The sooner he got home, the sooner he could be rid of Sherlock. 

After the obligatory argument about letting Sherlock into his flat, that is. John might have said ‘yes’ on occasion but more often than not, by the time they’d gotten to the door to his building, he was so irritated by Sherlock’s constant complaining that he just wanted him gone. And this night was shaping up to be worse than the rest. 

They were almost at John’s flat and Sherlock was beginning to feel a bit…he had no idea what but he didn’t like it. His heart was pounding so fast that it felt like it was about to jump out of his chest. He was also nervous which was ridiculous. Sherlock Holmes was never nervous. He had perfect control over his emotions at all times.

“You’re being unreasonable, John!” Sherlock said, now giving up all pretense of subtlety and demanding that John just do what he said.

“No. I can’t have you showing up like my dad to pick me up from school. Besides, Mycroft has already told me that he has people watching me so calm down.” 

They’d finally reached the door to John’s flat. 

“John. You’re being illogical. I don’t know how to make it any easier for you to understand. I’ve already dumbed it down as much as possible, why won’t you listen to reason?”

John paused, hand on the doorknob, and turned around with a look on his face that was so angry that Sherlock almost questioned the wisdom of pushing John on this. Almost.

“John…”

“I’m serious, Sherlock,” John said heatedly. “If you keep pushing me like this, if the only way to get some peace is to cut to off all communication with you, I will. I don’t need the aggravation.” 

Sherlock was shocked into silence by that statement.

Pushing open the door to his flat, John gave one last look at Sherlock, saying; 

“I don’t want to see you at St Bart’s tomorrow night. If you’re there when I come out. It’s over.” John said.

“But it hasn’t even really started yet,” Sherlock said, despising the note of pleading that had crept into his voice.

“Goodnight, Sherlock. I’LL call YOU when I have time to talk.” Exhausted and just wanting to sleep, John walked into the lobby, closing the door in Sherlock’s face. Without once glancing back, he started up the stairs to his flat, unlocked the door immediately shutting it behind him. Deciding to forego the tea he’d planned on having first, he went directly to his bedroom, stripped down to his pants and vest, and without giving Sherlock another thought, he fell into bed and was asleep within minutes.

***

“Looks like trouble in paradise,” Moriarty said with glee.

“That was a brilliant idea, Sebastian. Getting a job in facilities so that you’d have access to all of the labs. That little wireless mic that you slapped on Doctor Watson’s coat the other day is a miracle of modern design. The reception was so clear, it was like I was right there with them. Remind me to buy stock in that company tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Sebastian replied dutifully.

“Now that we know that Doctor Watson will be on his own tomorrow night, we can put my plan into action. The first thing you’re going to do is…

***


	12. A Matter Of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John enjoys his nightly conversations with a new co-worker: Sebastian Moran.

***

The Following Night

Wednesday - 1:30am

John had delayed leaving the lab for as long as possible, dreading that he might find Sherlock out there waiting for him, despite having been warned off. If John knew that Sherlock had considered himself as being patient until now, there would never have been a question of moving into Baker Street. The answer would have been an immediate and emphatic ‘NO!’ 

He’d been packed up and ready to leave the lab since 12:45am but kept putting it off. First by straightening anything that seemed remotely disorganized followed by shuffling and reshuffling the paperwork on his desk for things that were scheduled for tomorrow. Well, today. 

If Sherlock was out there, and John had no doubt that he would be, John was afraid that he’d lose what little self control he held over his temper and kick Sherlock’s old Dhamphir arse up and down the patient drop off area in front of St Bart’s. 

He was also simultaneously hoping that Sherlock would be out there just so that he could administer a well deserved arse kicking but kept that dark thought pushed down without examining it too closely. Conversely, he also hoped that Sherlock hadn’t listened to him and had come anyhow. As much as he hated to admit it, he looked forward to their nightly walks. There was something about being surrounded by the dark and walking home in companionable (if he was lucky) silence with someone that he enjoyed. He really did care about Sherlock. They’d had this almost instant connection and John admitted to himself that it actually felt good. Not that he’d tell Sherlock that. Hopefully, they’d be able to work this out before either one or both of them were sectioned.

John stood up with a sigh and shouldered his carry all looking like he had the weight of the world on his back. Pushing the bar to exit the morgue, John noticed the man from the hazmat department pushing his cart down the hall, red bags almost completely full, and gave him a nod. 

The man was new; he’d only had the job for a month but John had been impressed right away by his dedication to keeping the labs and offices pristine and sanitized. The hazardous waste containers were emptied every night - that seemed obvious in an area where biohazards were handled daily but John had worked in places where the sharps boxes were over flowing with discarded needles and bloody laundry still waiting to be picked up. No. Even though this man was “just doing his job” he was exceptionally thorough and John sincerely appreciated it.

John also liked the man himself. He usually came in to clean up hazardous waste from the lab and the morgue every night around 11:00pm. He always brought a cup of coffee for John and himself and so long as John had the time, stayed to chat until only the dregs in the bottom of their cups remained. 

John suspected that the nightly visits were due in part to his being the only other person on the floor working the nightshift.While John enjoyed working alone, he knew that for others, it could be lonely working in the middle of the night in an empty building five days a week and John was usually the only one remaining at that hour so he’d seemed to be a natural choice for the man to begin talking to and before John new it, it’d become an almost nightly thing.

“Sebastian. Hey. Thanks for the coffee earlier. As usual,” John added with a smile.

“No worries. Sometimes it feels a little spooky being here all alone but you always take the time to talk to me. The least I can do is bring you a coffee.”

“Well, I really appreciate it. I enjoy talking with you as well,” John said.

“You’re working late tonight, Doctor Watson. Important case?” Sebastian asked, pushing the hazardous waste cart against the wall preparing to chat. 

“Well, not really,” John said, running a hand through his gray-blond hair a bit sheepishly.

“Ah. Avoiding someone at home? I know how that is,” Sebastian said knowingly.

“Not exactly. My partner is pressuring me to move in with him but we haven’t been seeing each for long so…”

“You’re not ready to commit. I get it. I’ve been with my significant other for…well, a long time. We had our ups and downs too before we finally decided to give it a go. Oh, don’t get me wrong, we still have our ups and downs - for one thing, he’s moody as hell and has a scary temper - but he’s really a great guy the rest of the time. Lets me be myself. Doesn’t mind my hobbies. Actually. He’s very supportive of them and will offer suggestions and go out of his way to provide materials. Yeah. It was a good decision and I don’t regret it in the least. You have a roommate that you can confide in?” Sebastian asked, sensing that their conversation was coming to an end.

“Nah. I live alone. I like it, but…” John said, hesitating. He didn’t usually confide this much private information to anyone. He supposed that Sebastian had just hit him at a weak moment and he was spilling his guts. Now he felt awkward and just wanted to leave.

“Maybe you two just need to take a few days apart. You know. To think it over. You might miss him more than you realize.” Sebastian said, pulling the cart back into the aisle.

“Yeah. That’s what we’re doing right now, in fact. Hey. Thanks for listening. Sorry to dump all of this on you. I don’t usually do this sort of thing.” John apologized.

“No. No. I’d like to think that we’ve become friends these past few weeks. You ever need to talk, just let me know. Otherwise, there’s always football,” Sebastian said with a smile.

“Yeah. Dunno about that. My team’s rubbish at the moment.” John laughed.

“Even better! We can complain! See you tomorrow,” Sebastian said, pushing the cart down the aisle.

“Sounds good,” John said, giving a little wave as he turned to leave heading in the opposite direction.

“Doctor Watson?” Sebastian had paused to look back at John.

“Yeah?”

“Be careful out there. You never know who or what you might run into, in the dark. It can be dangerous to be on your own at night.”

“Oh, believe me, I know. I’m very cautious. You take care.” John said, a little shudder running down his spine.

“Will do! Goodnight, Doctor Watson.”

“Goodnight, Sebastian.”

***

Wednesday - 2am

Sherlock looked at his mobile, groaning in frustration. 

“How much work could he possibly have that he couldn’t leave before 2am?!’ He’d have a word with Mycroft about the hospital overworking his mate! 

Stuffing his mobile back into his inside jacket pocket, Sherlock stared intently at the hospital entrance from his vantage point across the street where he’d been sitting for hours. ‘I’m not breaking any rules,’ he told himself. John said that he didn’t to be walked home for awhile and he was honoring that request while taking advantage of a loophole: John had said that he didn’t want to see Sherlock for awhile but he hadn’t said anything about Sherlock being in the area and so Sherlock would remain unseen. 

He’d let Mycroft know what he was doing, of course. Wouldn’t do to hurt one of the men guarding John just because they got into Sherlock’s way. Mycroft had texted back one word:

“Fine.  
\- MH”

Sherlock smiled to himself. Another battle won. Well, technically, they hadn’t argued about it. Sherlock had just texted Mycroft telling him what he was doing and Mycroft had given in without a fight. Sherlock had to admit to himself that he was a bit disappointed by that. He’d been looking forward to the distraction. That Mycroft had capitulated immediately left Sherlock feeling vaguely unsatisfied. ‘Which was probably Mycroft’s goal, damn him!’

‘And just what the hell was taking John so long?’ Sherlock thought. He felt like John was avoiding him which was fairly insulting given the fact that Sherlock had promised not to walk him home anymore. John’s lack of trust in Sherlock was very irritating, completely oblivious to the irony that he was only ‘technically’ doing as John had requested. Sherlock wasn’t the most self-aware person in the world. Self-centered? Absolutely. Self-aware? No.

‘What the hell could be taking so long?!’ Sherlock thought again.

“Ah. There he is. And about time too.” Sherlock said softly to himself, watching as John exited through the glass doors of St Bart’s and paused, looking around him. Sherlock had been about to go in and find out for himself what was keeping him and he knew that might have been a mistake. He congratulated himself once again on his patience. 

***

John exited the hospital lobby and stood scanning his surroundings, looking for agents…looking for Sherlock. He knew Sherlock was out there somewhere. He couldn’t sense him so he wasn’t physically that close, but he felt certain that Sherlock was here despite John telling him not to come. 

He realized that he’d only told Sherlock not to wait for him to walk John home. Not to let John SEE him. But he’d never actually warned him off of just being in the area when John left work. He was keeping his promise, literally.

‘Oh. That sneaky bastard!’ John thought, the quirk of his lips the only indication that he was amused. If there was one thing that John had learned about Sherlock in the short amount of time that he’d known him it was this; he knew how to work a situation to his advantage and as loathe as John was to admit it, he admired how Sherlock always managed to obey instructions while simultaneously working a way around them to accomplish whatever his goal of the moment was. 

John pulled his bag higher on his shoulder and set off for home knowing that Sherlock would be following him all the way and finding that he didn’t mind it quite as much as he thought he should.

***

‘He’s smiling. Why is he smiling? Has he met someone? Is that why he was so late tonight?’ All of these thoughts passed through Sherlock’s mind as John began the walk home, Sherlock shadowing him all the way to his front door.

***

Thursday - 10:30pm

Sebastian punched in the code and entered the lab where John sat, going through his daily summaries. John looked up when he heard Sebastian open the door and he shoved his paperwork to the middle of the desk, leaning back in his chair and stretching.

“You’re early tonight,” John said, grateful for an excuse to take a break. 

“Not as much to do tonight for some reason. Reckon it’s due to the long weekend coming up,” Sebastian said, handing John his coffee.

“You’re probably right. I didn’t even realize that this was a long weekend. I would have probably shown up right on time Monday evening and then been cross with myself for not paying attention. Thanks for that and thank you for the coffee,” John said, saluting Sebastian with his cup before taking a sip. Vending machine coffee was horrible but it made their impromptu chats a bit more comfortable while getting to know each other.

“I really wish you’d let me pay you for the coffee or at least take turns paying for it. It doesn’t seem right, you always footing the bill.”

“Don’t worry about it. I actually consider it a bribe to get you to take a moment to enjoy a conversation with you. Believe me, bringing you a cup of cheap vending machine coffee is a great exchange. You’re doing me a favor by taking the time to talk.” Sebastian said, taking another sip of his coffee.

“Well, when you’re not expecting anything, getting coffee, even vending machine coffee, is a well appreciated distraction from work.”

“Busy week?” Sebastian asked.

“Just trying to get some of these morgue drawers empty. My job’s not complete until the autopsy, tests and paperwork have all been taken care of. It’s actually very satisfying while being frustrating at the same time,” John laughed, feeling a little silly making that comment. He took another sip of coffee.

“Lots of bodies right now?” Sebastian asked casually.

“Actually, no. Finally down to six empty drawers out of 10,” John said happily and feeling a bit ghoulish because of it.

“That’s great! You’re always so busy. It’ll be nice for you to have a break, I think.”

“I don’t mean it to sound as if I’m over worked. I just enjoy the sense of accomplishment. I feel deeply satisfied in a job well done. That sounds thoughtless and uncaring about the dead but I actually meant it more along the lines of wrapping things up for their loved ones and closing the file. Ok. That sounded a bit cold too. I should probably stop talking right now before I say anything more insensitive,” John said with a laugh.

“You provide a very import service to the community, Doctor Watson, you shouldn’t be embarrassed just because you’re good at your job and enjoy your work. I’m very satisfied with what I do,” Sebastian said seriously.

“Yeah, I know but…Hey. Do you know what?” John said, abruptly changing the subject. “After all of this time, you should really call me John. I actually don’t stand much on the practice of addressing people by their first names while they only address me by my title. Outside of business or the military, of course.”

“Of course. Hard to get respect from the troops when everyone is on a first name basis with their commanding officer, John,” Sebastian said with a laugh that lasted a little longer than John thought the comment warranted but that was one of the things that John really liked about Sebastian. He was always in such a good mood. Never had a bad word to say about anyone. Their evening chats always picked him up and he was glad that they’d met and become friends.

John tilted his coffee cup and tapped the sludge remaining in the bottom into his mouth. Crushing the cup and tossing it across the room into the nearest bin, he began to pack up.

“You know what? I’m going to leave a little early tonight,” John said, pulling on his jacket.

Sebastian looked at the clock on the wall and said; “It’s 12pm. Isn’t that when your shift normally ends?”

“Yeah but there’s always something else to do. I’m just done in tonight. It’ll still be here in the morning and I don’t have anything critical going on at the moment so, yeah, I’m going to leave on time for once,” John said with a laugh.

“Good on you! You should rest while you can. You never know when there might be a rash of bodies to deal with,” Sebastian smiled somewhat chillingly which bothered John for some unknown reason that he quickly dismissed.

“You in tomorrow?” John asked.

“Yep. And then I’m off for the week.”

“That’s great. Any plans or are you just going to hang out at home?” John asked, tugging his bag onto his shoulder.

“I plan on working on one of my projects next week. It’s going to be fun, having the time to do something I love and not be interrupted.” Sebastian said with a smile.

“That sounds great. I’m relatively new here so I won’t be taking off any time in the near future,” John said as he headed towards the exit.

“Don’t be ridiculous. With the amount of overtime you put in? I’d be surprised if someone didn’t drag you out of here kicking and screaming just to force you take a break and do something different for a change.”

“Yeah. Well. I wouldn’t count on that,” John said with a smile.

“I don’t know. People can surprise you.”

“True. See you tomorrow, Sebastian.”

“See you tomorrow, John. Maybe I’ll get us some of that fancy coffee from across the street. Celebrate my pending holiday. And special requests?” Sebastian asked.

“Nah. Surprise me.” John said with a wide grin.

“Well, ok then. It’s settled. Expect a surprise tomorrow night,” Sebastian smiled and began whistling a cheerful tune as he walked away. 

“Looking forward to it,” John said, walking in the opposite direction.

‘As am I, John. As am I.’ Sebastian thought to himself.

***

Thursday - 12:15am

Sherlock had always begun waiting for John at 10pm. It wouldn’t be like John to leave early but he’d rather be safe than sorry.

***

John unexpectedly pushed through the glass doors ‘early’, a big smile on his face, and immediately began the walk home without once checking his environment. He hadn’t felt this lighthearted in awhile. Maybe he would ask for a few days off while things were slow.

***

“What are you doing, John? You were never this early when I was waiting for you. And why are you happy - without me? That can’t be good.” Sherlock whispered to himself.

Seeing John immediately head home, Sherlock was embarrassingly caught off guard and had to shuffle to get out in time to keep an eye on John.

His mobile buzzed and he pulled it out, checking the text as he hurried along.

“You’re a little too close this time, Sherlock. I can feel you out there.  
\- JW”

‘Dammit!’ Sherlock thought, haphazardly shoving the mobile back into his jacket. He slowed his walk just enough to stay out of John’s range while still keeping him within eyesight. It wouldn’t change the fact that John already knew that he was out there but it wasn’t going to stop Sherlock from following him home either.

His mobile buzzed again and he immediately pulled it out to see if it was John again.

“Your stalking skills don’t seem to be up to snuff, brother mine.  
\- MH”

“Fuck off, Mycroft.  
\- SH”

Sherlock shoved the mobile back into his jacket and carried on his way, never losing sight of John.

***

John smiled as he finished typing his text, he hit ‘send’ and then laughed out loud. He knew that Sherlock was still there but he wouldn’t make the mistake of being within range of John’s ability to sense him again.

Putting his mobile back into his jacket pocket, he whistled the same tune that Sebastian had been whistling as he’d been leaving. It was familiar and John had been wracking his brains trying to remember what it was.

John stumbled a bit when he realized that Sebastian had been whistling Don’t Fear The Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult. ‘Sebastian certainly had a macabre sense of humor,’ John thought with a laugh. John was at the door to his building without remembering most of the trip. He went inside without giving Sebastian or that song another thought. Tomorrow was going to be a good day. He just knew it.

***

Sherlock watched as John entered his building giving a sigh of relief. Although he’d prefer to actually walk with John rather than following him, at least this way he could still keep an eye on him. Still. Something felt wrong. Why hadn’t Moriarty made a move? Something was coming and Sherlock was determined to be ready for it.

‘John is mine and I’ll kill anyone who touches him.’ And with those chilling thoughts, Sherlock headed home, less than satisfied with the situation but determined to protect John at all costs. That determination was about to be put to the test shortly and no one would be ready for it; least of all, Sherlock Holmes.


	13. Trust No One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is way too trusting and it costs him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a doctor if the medical stuff seems a little off, it's only because I don't know what I'm talking about.

***

Friday - 10:30pm  
St Bart’s Lab

John was just settling in when the door to the lab opened and Sebastian entered bearing two large cups of coffee - one in the crook of his arm so that he could enter the security code to access the lab, the other in his right hand - from the fancy cafe’ across the street from Bart’s.

“Whoah. Their coffee is expensive and you bought me a large? You have to let me repay you this time. I feel like I’m taking advantage of you. What do I owe?” John asked, feeling a bit awkward at being bought something but never contributing back. An inexpensive cup of vending machine coffee was one thing but this kind of expense was ridiculous and it made John very uncomfortable accepting it.

“Calm down, John. I’m celebrating my upcoming time off and it’s not like I’m going to keep up this level of service. One, you wouldn’t accept it, two, you’d force money on me because you felt guilty, and three, I couldn’t keep up with the expense of doing this five days a week.” Sebastian laughed, handing John his coffee. 

“Ok. I guess. I still feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” John said somewhat uncomfortably, removing the lid from his coffee while Sebastian did the same.

“Fine. You can buy the cheap vending machine coffee for an entire week after I return from vacation. Deal?”

“Deal.” John laughed taking a sip of the incredibly hot cup of coffee. It tasted bitter and John made a face.

“What’s wrong? Is it awful?” Sebastian looked at the name on his cup and it was labeled ‘John.’

“Oh no! I gave you my cup of coffee. Let’s switch, I swear that I don’t have cooties.” Sebastian laughed as he tried to hand his coffee to John.

“Are they very different because, if not, I’ll just keep it. No big deal.” John said, taking another sip and shuddering. 

“The only difference is that I had sugar put into yours but we both got an extra shot of espresso. Let me just get you some sugar from the break room. There are always loads of packets in there. That way we won’t have to switch. Sound good?” Sebastian asked.

“Espresso? EXTRA espresso? I’ll be climbing the walls if I drink that entire cup.” John said, laughing.

“That’s why I’m so early tonight. I figured that you might be in need of an end of the week pick me up. I’ve noticed that you always work late on Fridays. This will put some pep in your step. Be right back.” Sebastian said, leaving to get the sugar before John could reply. 

John took another sip and shuddered. ‘God. How do people drink this stuff?’ It was so bitter and strong and it was a double shot besides? He wouldn’t have continued drinking it but didn’t want to insult Sebastian. Especially considering all the trouble he’d gone to to pick it up, not to mention the expense. Still, John knew that there was no way he’d be able to drink the entire cup. It was huge! And god awful.

“Here you go.” Sebastian said, hands full of sugar packets, placing them in front of John on his desk.

“Thanks. I might just need all of these.” John said, opening two packets at a time and dumping them quickly into his cup, taking a sip after each addition. By the end, he’d added six packets of sugar before the coffee was remotely drinkable and even then, he was forcing himself not to make a face.

“Ok. Note to self: John hates espresso. Never buy it again. How’s that?”

“That’s good! It’s not that I don’t appreciate all the trouble that you went through to pick these up…” John began.

“Yes. Walking across the street was a huge burden,” Sebastian said, rolling his eyes.

“Ok. Ok. I’ll stop apologizing,” John said with a laugh.

“Good!” Sebastian said, taking a big gulp of his coffee. 

John looked down at his cup, braced himself and did the same. Blech! Still awful, only bitter AND sweet now.

“Better?” Sebastian asked.

“Um…not really but at least I know that I hate espresso now. Cheers!” John said, lifting his cup again and drinking deeply. A third of the way down. Thank god. It was almost over.

“You won’t hurt my feelings if you don’t finish it,” Sebastian said.

“Yeah. I’m going to probably take a few more sips and then I think I’m going to have to throw in the towel before it burns a hole in my stomach.” John admitted somewhat sheepishly.

“Hey. Look at it this way; now you know that you hate espresso and it didn’t cost you anything to find out,” Sebastian smiled, taking another huge gulp of his coffee.

“I don’t know how you can drink that so fast. I’m half way through and I can’t take it anymore,” John said, putting the lid back on and pushing the cup a little to the side.

“Well, coffee in general, is an acquired taste and espresso is an entirely different level of taste acquirement. I know that I won’t ever surprise you with Turkish coffee. That’d probably kill you!” Sebastian said, finishing his coffee and throwing it in the bin.

John could feel his heart beating a mile a minute. It felt like it was doing summersaults in there. He put a hand to his chest, looking a little pained.

“Hey. Are you ok?” Sebastian asked, concerned.

“Yeah, yeah. Just some heartburn and heart palpitations. They’ll go away but I’m definitely glad that I didn’t finish that entire cup!” John said, getting up and dumping the rest of the coffee in the sink, then crushing the cup and throwing it into the bin alongside Sebastian’s discarded cup.

Walking back to his desk, he felt the world spinning a bit and tripped - when he checked what he’d tripped over - nothing. Reaching his chair he placed his hand onto the back of it, slowly easing himself into his chair. He felt like his heart was trying to burst through his chest. He was NEVER drinking espresso again!

“John. Seriously. Are you ok?” Sebastian said, walking over and putting a hand on John’s shoulder.

“Truth be told, I don’t feel so well,” John said a bit shakily.

“This is all my fault! I’m so sorry! It never occurred to me that you didn’t drink espresso. I should have called you and asked,” Sebastian said worriedly.

“I’ll be fine. Neither one of us anticipated this kind of reaction. I just wish I had a place to lay down for a few minutes so that I could elevate my feet above my head,” John said, pressing a fist into his breastbone, no longer even attempting to hide the pain.

“Do you have an ulcer? Espresso and ulcers don’t go together very well. You drink coffee daily, though so I figured that you didn’t. Has this ever happened before?” Sebastian asked in a solicitous manner.

“No. No. But there’s a first time for everything. An antacid wouldn’t go amiss right about now but everything’s closed.”

“Why don’t you leave early?” Sebastian asked reasonably.

“Can’t. Too much to do because of the long weekend.” John bent over in pain. It felt as if someone was stabbing him in the chest and he felt as if he might be about to pass out.

“Ok. This is going to sound weird, but hear me out…” Sebastian started.

“At this point, I’m willing to do almost anything to make this stop.” John said, breath hitching.

“Well, the table in the morgue is sterilized after each use and again at night…”

“Yeah. I see where you’re going with this and you’re right, it does sound a bit weird,” John said as another sharp pain stabbed him behind his sternum. 

“You really should go home. I can call you a cab.” Sebastian suggested.

“No. I’ll…try the table in the morgue first. If I haven’t recovered in an hour or so, I’ll take your advice and go home.”

“Good. I’m going to run to the admin’s office and steal a few of the pillows off of her couch. Do you think that you’ll need help walking?” Sebastian asked.

“It’s ok. I’ll take it slow, go in, lower the table and lay down while you go on that reconnaissance mission,” John said, trying to laugh.

“You’re sure? In all the time we’ve been talking, I could have had you settled by now.”

“You’re right. Maybe I could use some help. Doctors make the worst patients,” John grimaced.

“Aint’ that the truth!” Sebastian said. Walking behind John’s chair, he placed his hands under his arms and began gently lifting him to a standing position. 

Once John was standing he turned to walk into the morgue and the world spun on its axis; he began to fall and decided to drop back down into his chair instead.

“No. No. No. Just let me help you. You’re very pale. I had no idea that you’d have such a strong reaction to espresso or I would have just gotten you regular coffee,” Sebastian said, all but dragging John out of his chair again and into the morgue.

“Well, how would you know that? I didn’t even know,” John said as Sebastian eased him into a sitting position on the table after lowering it.

Lifting John’s legs, he helped to slowly lay them down, followed by maneuvering his upper body gently onto the table. John groaned in pain.

“This is worse. This is most definitely worse. I hope that I don’t wind up in hospital because of this. Sherlock would be furious,” John said, with a poor attempt at humor.

“Oh! Right! I should call him! He can come in a taxi and make sure that you get home ok,” Sebastian suggested anxiously.

“Lord, no. He’s been relatively sticking to our, my agreement, plus he’s extremely over-protective and jealous. I don’t know what he’d do if he saw another man near me much less touching me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sebastian said disapprovingly.

“Well, yes and no. He’s just not used to feeling this way about another person and it’s shaken him…oh god. Pillows. Please!” John rolled onto his side on the cold metal table, folding himself into the foetal position as much as he could approximate around the pain.

“I’ll be right back with those pillows!” Sebastian said, pushing the bar and exiting the morgue quickly.

‘I’m lucky that Sebastian was still here when this hit. Bart’s would have admitted me instantly,’ John thought. Regretting the espresso but grateful for the help.

Although laying down flat had made the pain worse at first, the dizziness that followed hit John full force and he felt that he might vomit. The pain was wearing him out, he could feel a certain kind of lassitude falling over him. He couldn’t move on his own if he had to.

Sebastian entered through the lab and rushed into the morgue carrying two couch cushions.

“I’m going to have to move you onto your back again, John. Let’s can see if elevating your legs helps the situation at all. Otherwise, I’m having a gurney sent up here and taking you to A&E. Ok?” When John didn’t respond, Sebastian turned him gently on his back, arranging the pillows. He stepped back to look at John’s pale face, his eyes shut tight with pain.

“John? John. Can you hear me?” Sebastian asked, touching John’s shoulder.

“A little although the pain hasn’t really improved, just shifted. It’s the dizziness that won’t stop; I feel like I’m about to pass out,” John said through gritted teeth, not opening his eyes.

“I’ll be right back.” Sebastian said, leaving once again to check one of the other labs for what he needed.

“I’m here John. Ok?” Sebastian said softly when he returned.

“Not ok but I can hear you. Can’t seem to open my eyes anymore. The lights are so bright.”

Pulling back John’s shirt collar, Sebastian opened the small packet in his hand and used the slip of gauze saturated in alcohol to wipe a spot on John’s shoulder with it.

Reaching into his pocket, Sebastian pulled out a syringe, removed the cap, quickly rid it of any air bubbles and injected John in the area that he’d just cleaned.

John felt the stick but it seemed far away. He didn’t think he’d left the morgue so why was someone injecting an unknown substance into his body without his permission.

“Sebastian? What’s going on,” John mumbled.

“John. I’m so sorry about the espresso. Had I known that you would have had this type of reaction, I would have chosen a different type of drink to drug you with.” Sebastian said, pushing John’s damp hair off of his forehead. 

“Drugged? The coffee was drugged? Why? Was I just injected with something or did I imagine that?” John asked, addressing the most recent issue on his mind.

“That was a shot of morphine. The pain in your chest should already be receding. How are you?”

“Better. Getting better. So tired though. Morphine? How did you get morphine? And should you even be doing something like that?” John asked anxiously but it was if he was talking in slow motion, each word a struggle to get out.

“It’s ok, John. I was a medic in the military and I’m more than qualified to give injections. I’ve also performed surgery in the field which will come in handy today.” Sebastian said, now running his fingers through John’s hair.

“What? Surgery?” The chest pain had receded but he was rapidly losing consciousness and fighting it all the way.

“Well, the coffee caused an unexpected delay. I had expected you to drink the entire cup and you would have been completely passed out 20 minutes ago but between the slow intake, pain and you not getting a full dose…the fact that you’re even barely awake is impressive. The morphine alone should have finished the job. You really are an impressive man, John.”

“Surgery?” John asked again.

“Oh. Yes. The boss, Moriarty, you might have heard of him, has been somewhat patiently waiting while I gained your trust. I must admit that I actually do enjoy your company though and I sincerely hope that you make it through this.”

“Moriarty? Through what?” John repeated in a near whisper.

“Ah, well, I’m about to cut you open - just a small cut - and install a CV Port near your collar bone. I wish you weren’t going to be awake when I start but considering that it’s now 11:30pm, I can’t take the chance of Sherlock coming to the rescue before I’ve finished.”

“That’s…that’s a line directly to my heart. Why?”

“The boss doesn’t know how long he’s going to keep you and frankly, he loves Dhamphir blood so I’m basically installing a tap so that he can drink directly from the source. Don’t worry, I can perform this procedure in about 20 minutes. I’ve had plenty of experience. You’ll be fine. 

“I’m afraid that it is going to hurt when I start cutting though, but hopefully between the morphine and the amount of the other drug remaining in your system, you’ll barely feel a thing. If you’re lucky, you’ll pass out from the pain.

“I’m very cautious and the area will be well sterilized before I begin. Afterwards, I’ll cover the Port with a waterproof bandage to keep the incision clean but once you get to the boss, we’ll be using sterile bandages between drinks until the Port heals. 

“The great thing about a Port is that you can use a needle to inject something directly into it or you can plug in an IV when a continuous flow is needed. These things are great.

“Ok. Off to get my kit. It’s hidden in the hazmat cart, secure in a sealed container so you don’t have to worry about cross contamination and obviously, I’ll be wearing surgical gloves but then, you’ve probably already anticipated that. Be right back,” Sebastian said, giving John’s shoulder a brief pat before he left.

‘Sherlock. Please break the rules and find me before anything worse happens. I don’t know what Moriarty has planned for me - besides drinking my blood through a straw - but I’d really like it if you’d be in your typical jerk mode, ignore what I said and get in here and save me,’ John pleaded in his mind.

“Back!” Sebastian was weilding another syringe. 

“What…what is that…?

“Lidocaine. I can’t provide any more sedation right now - wouldn’t want to accidentally overdose you - but there’s no reason to cut you open when I can numb the surgical site. I just wasn’t expecting you to still be awake at this point. And as I said, I really do like you and want to keep your suffering to a minimum.” 

Tearing open another packet containing an alcohol swab, Sebastian cleaned the area near John’s collarbone, preparing the site to be numbed. He jabbed the needle in several locations to make sure that the lidocaine was well distributed.

After opening the container with the allegedly (John hoped) sterilized equipment, Sebastian went to the sink, thoroughly washed his hands, then donned surgical gloves. John really wished someone had helped him put those on. 

Pulling a nearby sterile operating tray next to John, Sebastian began laying out everything that he’d require for the surgery and started opening the sterile packages in which they were enclosed.

Swabbing the surgical location with betadine, Sebastian paused, holding the scalpel over the planned incision site. Giving John a sympathetic look, he said;

“I know you probably won’t believe this but I’m truly sorry that you had a bad reaction to the coffee. That’s going to bother me for a long time.”

‘Great. I feel so much better now,’ John thought fuzzily. He wished that he could fall asleep. Between all that espresso and adrenaline, he couldn’t seem to pass out. He was not looking forward to this procedure. 

Sebastian made the cut and then began feeding the catheter through the vein towards John’s heart. Pausing, he looked John in the eyes and said;

“I know what you’re thinking. ‘How will he know when to stop feeding the catheter. How will he avoid actually stabbing me in the heart.’ Well, after doing this so many times in the field, you learn by feel and I’m the best there is. When it hits the right place, I’ll know. You’ll definitely know; maybe have a few heart palpitations although after your reaction to the espresso, I’m not sure that I can trust your response with that one. Either way, I guarantee I’ll hit the spot on the first go. Normally, when you’re having this done in hospital you’d use X-Rays or a Fluoroscope to be 100% accurate in the placement of the catheter but I don’t have time to do all that plus, as I said before; I don’t need it. You really should have gone home when I told you to, John. Ok. Here we go…”

***  
Saturday 1:30am  
Sherlock’s Perch Across The Street From St Bart’s

Sherlock checked the time on his mobile for the third time and sighed. Late again? Sherlock swore that if John wasn’t out of there by 2:30 at the latest, he was going in and getting him, the rules be damned!

***

Saturday 1am  
St Bart’s Morgue

“That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” Sebastian asked, covering the site of the incision with a clear adhesive bandage.

John had already burned through every bit of sedation and painkiller that he’d been given. He swore that his heart actually hurt. The insertion point of the Port definitely did.

Sebastian had finished up by drawing blood directly from the Port using a large needle and pronounced the procedure a ‘success.’ He flushed the Port with a saline solution followed by heparin to keep the blood from clotting in the catheter, then calmly walked to the sink and began clean up.

John tried to sit up and without turning around, Sebastian continued washing his hands and said;

“I wouldn’t try to move if I were you, John. You might feel wide awake but take one step off of that table and you’ll end up in a heap on the floor. Not to mention the fact that you’re too weak to fight a kitten right now. Just lay back down and wait until we get to the next thing.”

’Next thing?’ John thought, dropping his head back on the table with a thud.

He could hear Sebastian rummaging through lab containers until he found what he was looking for: a body bag. John’s eyes widened.

“Honestly John. Do you really think that I’d perform surgery on you just to kill you? Besides, Sherlock wouldn’t like it if we killed you, I know that the boss definitely wouldn’t be happy, so just behave and hopefully you’ll get out of this alive.”

Unzipping the bag, Sebastian started at John’s feet until he’d been completely slipped into the bag. John hadn’t even moved a muscle. It seemed pointless. He’d just bide his time until he could escape or until Sherlock found him. 

Didn’t they realize that Sherlock would check every body bag leaving the hospital? He wouldn’t even have to open the bag, he’d just sense him and that’d be it. He’d thought that this Moriarty was supposed to be a genius.

“Now for the most difficult part; getting you into one of the morgue drawers.”

“What?!” John said. He was mildly claustrophobic but he’d been hanging in there while the bag was slowly closing around him, now they wanted to store him in a tiny refrigerated box? No. Just…no. John began to struggle until Sebastian pressed his thumb down on John’s newly installed Port causing him to gasp in pain. 

“It’s obvious that I can’t just take you out of here right now with all the exits being watched. Storing you in a morgue drawer until we feel confident enough to move you without alerting any remaining agents or, even worse, Sherlock, this is where you’ll stay. Plus, the cooler temperature will lower your heart rate and all of that steel around you won’t allow either you or Sherlock to sense the other. It’s perfect, really,” Sebastian said, dragging the mortuary table over to the drawers.

“I won’t remain quiet in there. You have to know that,” John said, a little desperately. Panic beginning to set in.  
“Did you really think that I hadn’t already thought of that. I considered taping your mouth shut but what if you vomited and choked on it? A dead Doctor Watson doesn’t serve the bosses’ purposes very well, now, does it? No, I’m going to keep you sedated until I can come back to pick you up.” Sebastian began rummaging around in that damned box again.

“You’ll still have to check on me to make sure I haven’t woken up.” John snarled.

“Ah hah!” Sebastian crowed, holding up a small IV bag and showing it to John before he ran some fluid through the line to make sure that there weren’t any air bubbles or anything blocking the flow of the liquid. He then attached the connector to the Port installed in John’s chest, uncurled the connected catheter and lay the bag on John’s lap. It was filled with a clear substance and labeled but the print was too fine for John to read, especially in his current condition.

“What’s that?” John asked nervously. 

“Just a little IV sedation. It’s enough for three days. I just set it on drip and it will keep a constant flow pumping into your veins until I come back for you on Monday. It’s a holiday so I’ll pretty much have the place to myself and technically, I’ll be on vacation so no one will be looking for me anyhow. It’s perfect, really. Then on Monday night, I’ll just drive a hearse up to the back of the hospital, shove your bagged body inside and be on my way, with none the wiser.” 

Sebastian lowered the table to one of the drawers on the bottom and pulled out the slab, readying it to receive John’s warm body and that’s when John finally snapped. He didn’t think about it, he just started trying to get out of that bag before he was shoved into cold storage but he was so weak that he couldn’t even lift his arms above his hips.

Sebastian looked down at John with what seemed to be a sincerely regretful look in his eyes.

“No sense struggling, John. You’re well and truly caught. Don’t worry, you’ll be asleep soon and won’t even know that you’re in there. Next time you wake up, you’ll already be at our destination.” Sebastian zipped John up until he’d reached the Port.

“No. You can’t do this. I thought we were friends!”

“We are friends. That’s the only reason that I’ve been so kind and patient with you. I’m really not a nice person, John, and once the boss has you, well, playtime will be over. I’m truly sorry John.”

Sebastian covered John with a blanket, gently tucking it in around him. (“I not supposed to do this but we are friends after all.”) As John was being slid further and further into his tomb, he suddenly began feeling sleepy. He looked over at Sebastian to see that he had opened the clip to allow the solution to drip at a faster rate, and started holding the IV bag up without John even noticing. John felt a sense of calm beginning to steal over him, his panic still there but the sense of urgency was greatly reduced.

“It’ll be ok, John. Just do what the boss says and I won’t have to hurt you. Oh, and thanks for letting me know about all of the empty morgue drawers. That was the inspiration that I needed to get you out of here under Sherlock’s very nose, as it were.” Sebastian smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile.

There was a hook on the wall next to John’s elbow on which Sebastian hung the IV. John sleepily wondered why he’d never noticed hooks in the morgue drawers. Sebastian, seeing John’s questioning look, said;

“Oh. I put that there just for this occasion. Velcro is an amazing thing, isn’t it? And so versatile too.” Sebastian opened the clip on the IV a little more allowing the flow of the sedation to increase, until John was almost completely out. 

“It’ll be over before you know it,” Sebastian assured him.

The last thing that John saw was Sebastian smiling down on him as he finished closing the drawer. Then everything suddenly went black and he knew no more.

***

Saturday 2:30am  
St Bart’s Lab/Morgue

Sherlock had waited as long as he could stand and then he just shoved his way into the hospital, ignoring anyone in his way.

The stairwells were locked after 6pm so Sherlock had no choice but to wait - impatiently - to take the elevator downstairs to the morgue.

He reached the door to John’s lab but didn’t see him so he hurriedly punched in the code and slammed the door open with so much force that it bounced off the wall. By the time it had closed, Sherlock was already at John’s desk examining a dried coffee cup ring.

The first thing that Sherlock noticed as he began searching the lab was an odor he hadn’t expected: Vampire! Then he smelled blood and knew that it was John’s. He began searching for the source of the blood and found a bin with two empty coffee cups, two used syringes, which should have been disposed of in the sharps box, and wads of bloody gauze. They’d obviously been left there for him to find.

Taking a surgical glove from a nearby box, he carefully picked up both syringes, sniffing one then the other. Morphine. Lidocaine. He picked up the cup labeled ‘John’ and sniffed it. Nothing but espresso. On a hunch, he picked up the other cup that had been crushed and read the name: ‘Seb.’ Sherlock held that cup to his nose and sniffed it. Also espresso but there was something else…some sort of sedative that he had neither the time nor the inclination to attempt to analyze at that moment. 

He’d known the other two scents instantly - certainly morphine was a no brainer - but he had no idea what the lidocaine had used been for. Sherlock dropped everything back into the bin and picked up a piece of blood soaked gauze and sniffed. Definitely John’s blood. A lot of John’s blood. Had he been injured trying to escape?

Sherlock tried but failed to sense John’s location. Of course his scent was everywhere, Sherlock thought stupidly, he came here five days a week after all. He went into the morgue and stopped, staring at the mortician’s table. Blood. Blood everywhere. A bloody scalpel discarded on a nearby tray. They’d cut him open! Why?

He began frantically calling John’s name but expected and received no reply. He saw John’s coat still hanging up, and checked the pockets; John’s keys and mobile were still in there. He’d never leave without those but where was he? He clearly wasn’t in the morgue OR the lab. 

Sherlock tried following John’s scent through both doors and although he could smell John, he couldn’t tell if he’d used either door recently. Even the vampire scent was deeply embedded here as if it came here every day as well.

Sherlock tried sensing John again - still nothing. His mobile buzzed letting him know that he had a text. He wasn’t in the mood to play word games with Mycroft right now.

“Missing something?

JM”

“Goddamit! Moriarty! I knew it!” Sherlock shouted and then he called the first person who could remotely help.

“You’re actually deigning to call me, brother? To what do I owe the honor?” Mycroft answered condescendingly.

“Moriarty has John!”

“How? I have teams everywhere. You’ve been there everyday as well and I know that you’re the last person who someone could slipped by without your notice.” Sherlock could hear Mycroft’s chair being pushed back as he stood up.

“Do you know how long he’s been gone?”

“No but Moriarty just texted me and asked if I was “missing something” so he’s unsurprisingly behind this. And I could detect the scent of a vampire in here everywhere. He’s been in both the lab and morgue with John and often.”

“Wouldn’t John have been able to scent him? Sense him?” Mycroft asked seemingly astounded.

“John is new to this life. So far he’s only been able to tell when I’m around. He doesn’t have the experience and knowledge that we have. That vampire just sat in here, sipping coffee with John, biding his time while spinning his web.”

“We’ll find him, Sherlock.”

“There’s…a lot of blood. All John’s. I’ll bring the evidence to you and let your people go through it. They cut him open, Mycroft,” Sherlock said with a hitch in his voice.

“I swear to you that we’ll find him,” Mycroft said.

“Alive?” Sherlock’s voice almost sounded tremulous but Mycroft thought he must be imaging things.

“Alive. I promise.”

“You promised he’d be safe in St Bart’s too. I told you that they’d just come in and take him. I told you that but you wouldn’t listen!”

“Sherlock. Calm down. You’re right. I was wrong not to trust your intuition and I’m sorry but apologies aren’t going to bring John back so gather up all the evidence you can find and bring it to my home. We’ll go through it first and then have it analyzed by forensics.”

“Alright,” Sherlock replied softly. “Mycroft, they left his coat hanging on the wall, his mobile and house keys still in the pockets. John would never have willingly left without any of those things.”

“Just pack up everything that you think can help us find John and get over here. I’ll keep my agents in place just in case Moriarty has hidden John somewhere in the building and is planning to sneak him out.”

“Ok. Ok. Good. I’ll see you soon,” Sherlock disconnected the call without waiting for a reply from Mycroft. He needed to pull himself together. He was swamped by emotions and he didn’t know how to deal with them or even recognize what exactly he was feeling. All but one: anger. When he found John, he was going to dice Moriarty into little pieces, and ensure that he lived long enough to regret ever having taken John and Sherlock knew several ways to ensure that that happened.

Looking around the lab and morgue one more time to see if he’d missed anything, he grabbed everything that he thought could be evidence, leaving John sleeping dreamlessly only three feet away.

***


	14. Misdirection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty's plan comes together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not thrilled with this chapter. Everything happened as it was supposed to happen, I'm just not happy with the flow. Who knows, I may come back and obsessively tweak it later. I've done that before.

***

Saturday 6am  
Sherlock’s Flat

“How’s that search going?

JM”

Sherlock threw his mobile across the room in a fit of anger. It hit the back of the couch with a heavy “thump” sliding down between the cushions. Sherlock hurried over and anxiously dug it out. He couldn’t let his temper get in the way of getting information about John. Especially if it was from Moriarty. 

They’d had John since at least 10pm last night when the hospital was virtually empty of employees. Moriarty confirmed what Sherlock had already suspected; that a vampire had John, doing…god knew what, before removing him from the building.

If Moriarty had been watching Sherlock’s habits, he’d have known that his thug had at best, until 2am to get John out of there before Sherlock went in after him. Which meant that, logically, they had to have implemented their plan well before 2am to ensure that there wasn’t a chance of Sherlock realizing that John had already been long gone by then. 

They hadn’t left any evidence of what type of surgery they’d performed on John but Sherlock thought that they must have given him the morphine so that he didn’t feel any pain and would remain quiet while they’d moved to an unknown location. It appeared that the blood loss was minor; not life threatening - for now. Sherlock didn’t expect that to continue; Dhamphir blood was more addictive to vampires than heroine was for humans. Moriarty would drain John dry if they didn’t find him in time.

Sherlock had spent several hours at Mycroft’s looking through all of the evidence and had tentatively determined that Moriarty’s cohort had intentionally planned the coffee cup switch. John wouldn’t have a reason to suspect that the other person would drug their own coffee but why make the switch unless John had been suspicious in the first place? Clearly, John knew his kidnapper. This “Seb.” At least casually. Well enough for the vampire to visit John nightly. Was this Seb person meant to be the original target? Sherlock doubted it. 

Sherlock felt confident that John would have at least contacted him if he’d felt that his life was being threatened at work but he hadn’t heard from him since the text from the night before when John had told him that he’d known that Sherlock was there.

Sherlock’s mobile buzzed again. Looking at it, he read;

“You could just ask me where he is. I might be feeling generous. You never know.

JM”

“Fine. Where is he?

SH”

“I’m not going to tell you that, silly! I’m not an idiot!

JM”

“Dammit!” Sherlock yelled at his mobile. He really hadn’t expected Moriarty to tell him anything but he’d allowed himself to have a sliver of hope anyhow. 

***  
Saturday, 8pm  
Sherlock’s Flat

Sherlock’s mobile buzzed and saw that it was Mycroft calling.

“Have you found him?” Sherlock demanded immediately upon answering.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. We’ve looked at all of the video and found nothing out of the ordinary. We haven’t been able to figure out how they got him out of there.”

Sherlock had expected that answer and wasn’t surprised, just angry.

“You can’t figure it out? What about bodies being picked up by funeral homes?”

“We’ve checked out all of those and each body matches up with the person picked up.”

“You’ve actually gone out into the field and checked those bodies in person, Mycroft? Because I don’t trust your incompetent agents to do it on their own. They seem to need supervision.”

“Sherlock, I can assure you that my people know the difference between John Watson and a corpse.”

“If John isn’t already a corpse,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

“I’ve reviewed all of the surveillance video and sent it to you right away. Haven’t you looked at it yet?” Mycroft asked, studiously ignoring Sherlock’s ‘corpse’ comment.

“Of course I’ve looked at it.”

“Then why are you asking me something to which you already know the answer?” Mycroft asked, sounding a bit condescending.

“I was hoping that maybe someone who is supposedly more competent than I am in this area, had come up with something new,” Sherlock replied.

“Well, if my people couldn’t find anything and the great Sherlock Holmes couldn’t find anything either, it’s obvious that John was taken from a blind spot in the camera coverage.”

“There shouldn’t have been ANY blind spots!”

“We covered all exits…,” Mycroft began.

“Obviously not,” Sherlock huffed.

“But they found a way around security. I’m not proud of it but even you must understand that I can’t cover every little nook and cranny on the outside of a building as large as Bart’s.”

“What about tunnels? Many hospitals have underground tunnels that they use to transport patients to and from surgery so that they’re out view of the public.” Sherlock asked desperately.

“No tunnels at Bart’s. We’ve already checked on that.”

“What about this ‘Seb’ person? Any information on him? Have you found him yet? He had to have been in the morgue often, his scent was everywhere.”

“Yes. We’ve found him. His name is Sebastian Moran and he works in facilities and handles mopping floors, emptying the hazardous waste, ensuring that areas are sterile.”

“How long has he worked there? John never mentioned him. Is he new?” Sherlock demanded.

“No. He’s not new and from all the evidence we’ve gathered, it seems that he and John struck up a friendship several weeks ago. Apparently, Moran has been buying John coffee regularly. Usually it’s only hospital coffee but for some reason, last night Moran went to the shop across the street and bought two expensive coffees; one for each of them.”

“Maybe the coffee shop drugged them.” Sherlock said doubtfully.

“I have agents on that as well.”

“It’s Moran. I know it is.”

“Friday was Moran’s last night before going on vacation.”

“That’s convenient. Tell me where he is and I’ll beat the answers out of him myself.” Sherlock said angrily. 

“It seems that he’s just staying home…”

“Address, Mycroft.”

“We already have agents on the way to…ah…interview him.”

“They’re not as motivated as I am, Mycroft, and you know it. Address. Please?” Sherlock asked, his voice hitching a bit on the last word. 

Mycroft sighed, knowing how much it had cost Sherlock to say ‘please,’ and gave him the address. It wasn’t as if he’d expect him to wait until Mycroft’s men had finished with Moran anyhow, and so he gave up the information without a fight.

***

Sherlock entered Moran’s address into his mobile and hung up on Mycroft.

‘I’ve got you now, Moriarty,’ Sherlock thought, hurriedly pulling on his coat and scarf. Taking the steps two at a time, Sherlock exited the building, the lighted windows of 221 Baker Street rapidly receding behind him as he rushed out into the dark night to find John Watson.

***

Saturday, 10pm  
Sebastian Moran’s Flat

Sebastian Moran was sitting in his recliner enjoying a beer and watching some mindless gameshow on the telly. He wasn’t getting John until Monday night and was just biding his time, waiting for Sherlock to show up and try to get answers out of him. It was all part of the plan to throw Sherlock off the trail.

There was a sudden banging at his door and Moran took his time getting out of the chair before answering it.

“Yeah?” He asked, opening the door a crack to find Sherlock standing on his front stoop. 

“Sebastian Moran?” Sherlock demanded.

“Yeah. What of it? It’s a little late for a visit, isn’t it?” Moran asked, sounding indignant. 

Sherlock wasn’t in the mood for games and shoved the door open knocking Moran back against the wall with the force of it.

“Oi! Who are you? You can’t just come bursting into a man’s house like that!” Moran demanded.

Grabbing him by the shirt collar, Sherlock shoved him against the wall demanding;

“Where is he!”

“Where is who?” Moran asked, acting confused.

“You know who. John Watson! What have you done with him?!” Sherlock asked, tightening his hold on the collar just enough to cause Moran to cough.

“John? I saw him last night. I see him every night. Facilities. Housekeeping. He works the night shift so I can’t help but run into him. Nice bloke. Is something wrong with him? He wasn’t feeling well last night. I told him that I’d call him a cab but he said that he had too much work to do and couldn’t leave yet. He assured me that he’d take a break and would be fine. Apparently espresso doesn’t agree with him.”

“Especially when it’s been drugged.”

“Drugged? What are you talking about? I gave him my coffee by mistake and he decided just to drink it since it was similar to mine. Wait! It had been meant for me! Someone was trying to drug me?! Is someone after me?” Moran asked nervously. God, he was having a good time. He had to admit that this was some of his finest acting. 

“I don’t believe you,” Sherlock said, releasing Moran.

“I don’t care what you believe. I had nothing to do with drugging that coffee. John and I are friends.”

“Yeah, a Dhamphir friends with a vampire? I don’t think so. Why were you even there?” Sherlock demanded.

“Vampires have to work for a living to you know. It’s not like we’re out there robbing everyone as a way to pay the bills. John’s a great guy. He didn’t seem bothered at all by the fact that I was a vampire. Never even mentioned it. He’s not a racist, unlike the rest of you Dhamphirs.” Moran huffed.

“Dhamphirs are very rare. Your kind finds my kind to be a delicacy. Are you trying to tell me that you weren’t tempted to take a drink? Not once?” 

“Well, of course I was tempted,” Moran huffed. “But contrary to Dhamphirs constantly trying to paint vampires as the bad guys, we actually prefer to live in peace…”

At that, Sherlock snorted.

“Don’t you think you’d notice if Dhamphirs were disappearing all over the place? Have others gone missing? Have any complained of being attacked? There are always going to be outliers but that doesn’t make us all guilty of crime.”

Just then there was another knock at the door.

“What is this, some kind of reunion?” Moran opened the door to see three people dressed in black who were clearly government agents.

“I’ve already told this bloke everything I know so do me a favor and piss off. I’m on vacation,” Moran said, sounding genuinely aggravated. 

The men entered the flat without a word. 

“He claims that he’s friends with John and knows nothing of what happened to him after he went home from work. I hope that you can get more out of him than I could although I doubt it. He seems to be a highly motivated liar.” Sherlock said, exiting the open door. He didn’t look back.

***

Monday, 11pm  
Moriarty’s Safe House

“Any problems, Sebby?” Moriarty asked between dainty sips of John’s blood.

“Nope. They’re so sure that Watson was gone that they pulled surveillance late last night. I just went into the empty lab tonight, opened the drawer, zipped the bag up and rolled him right out of there. Not one person stopped me to ask a question. I was concerned that I might run into someone who knew that I was supposed to be on vacation but nope, not another soul around,” Sebastian said with a grin.

“Ugh. What is this?” Moriarty asked after taking a deeper drink from John’s IV.

“Propofol. It was the safest thing to give him to keep him asleep for the three days,” Moran replied.

“Let’s try out some other flavors the next time we do this. It leaves an awful aftertaste,” Moriarty said, turning the IV down and letting some blood drain into the bucket next to the table on which John currently rested.

“Jim…”

“I know. I know. I’m not going to let him bleed out. I just wanted to get some clean blood closer to his heart. I mean, honestly, you have no idea how nasty this stuff is. It’s almost enough to put me off drinking Dhamphir blood completely,” Moriarty said with a laugh. 

Bringing the tubing up to his lips again and taking another deep swallow of John’s blood, Moriarty said;

“Ok. That’s enough. I can’t take it anymore. Hook up an IV and get some fluids into him so that we can flush that god awful sedative out as quickly as possible,” Moriarty handed the tube to Moran.

“I’ll take care of it right away, Jim.”

Moriarty placed a hand on Moran’s cheek saying; “I know you will, Seb. I know you will. That’s why you’re my top guy.” Giving Moran’s cheek a little tap, Moriarty turned and left the room.

Moran set about adding an IV bag to the Port in John’s chest. Hanging the bag on the nearby pole, he patted John’s shoulder saying;

“Almost time to wake up, John. So far so good.” Moran said as he double checked the restraints holding John’s wrists and ankles to the table. Patting John on the shoulder one more time, he left the room, letting the door shut slowly behind him.

***

Tuesday, 1am  
Moriarty’s Safe House

John’s eyelids slowly fluttered open, the pain from the surgery waking him up as the sedative finished leaving his body. 

John’s chest hurt. His heart hurt. He didn’t know what had happened or where he was, just that he couldn’t move, his chest hurt, and he felt like he’d lost time somehow.

He tried looking around the room but his eyesight was still blurry from the sedation and he couldn’t quite make out his surroundings. Had he been in an accident?

Just then, he heard a door open and footsteps headed his way.

“Ah! You’re awake! Good! I was beginning to think that you were going to sleep forever. I just came in to change the bag connected to your IV.” 

“Seb? Where am I? Was there some kind of accident in the lab?”

“No. It’s just the temporary amnesia from the propofol. Don’t worry, things will start coming back to you soon.” Moran said, letting water from the new bag run through the tubing before connecting it to the catheter. 

“Propofol? Why would I have been given that?” John asked, the pain from the site of the incision making him catch his breath.

“Are you in pain, John?” Moran asked, ignoring John’s question.

“Some. I don’t understand what happened,” John said, frowning in confusion.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s better to use this time to relax. You’ll learn what’s in store for you soon enough,” Moran said, walking away from John.

“Wait! Where are you going?” John asked nervously.

“Just getting a little pain killer for you before the boss comes back. He actually likes the taste of this one so it’s a win win for both of you,” Moran said, injecting the pain medication into John’s line.

“Boss? Who?” John asked slowly, eyelids beginning to droop as the drug began to take effect.

“Why, Jim, of course.” Moran said cheerfully.

“Moriarty?” John felt that that should have come out a little more forcefully than the whisper with which it had.

“Yes. Jim. I’d say that you’ll like him but I don’t want to lie to you. You’re really not going to like him and he doesn’t want you to, so…,” Moran said with shrug and a smile.

“But…why. Why am I here? Why me?” John asked, struggling to get the words out.

“Why? Because you’re delicious, Doctor Watson, and my Seb here was kind enough to bring me some Dhamphir carryout. I just love him to pieces!” Moriarty said, suddenly appearing at John’s head.

“I gave him some pain medication. The incision site is bothering him. It’s one of the opioids with the flavor you enjoy so much.” Moran said, eager to please, as always.

“Sebby. You’re so good to me! What would I do without you?” Moriarty said, giving Moran a quick hug. Uncapping the other line connected to John’s Port, Moriarty took a long draw of the mainline connection to John’s heart’s blood, eyes closing in bliss.

“Oh, yes. You’ve really outdone yourself this time! This is my favorite flavor! You remembered!”

“Of course. Anything for you, Jim. You know that.” Moran said, a look of pure adoration on his face as he gazed at Moriarty.

“This is so good, Seb! Have some?” Moriarty asked, offering the tubing to Moran.

“Oh, no sir. I couldn’t. I got that for you.”

“Well, maybe later.” Moriarty said, raising the tubing back to his lips, this time drinking steadily.

“Yum! Well, wouldn’t want to kill you just yet so, laterz! Come along, Seb.”

“Right behind you, Jim.” Moran said, hurrying along to keep up with his master leaving John alone once again.

***

John’s heart felt like it was struggling to beat, and his lungs struggling to inflate in his chest. He tried to keep his eyes open but was losing the battle.

‘Sherlock…please…help…,’ John thought and then he was gone.


	15. I Love It When A Plan Comes Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim has trouble controlling his thirst for John's blood. Sebastian is assigned an errand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter but I've had this written forever and I feel badly for keeping you guys waiting for so long. I figured that it'd be better to put out what I already have than give you nothing at all. Hopefully it reads well. 
> 
> Apologies.
> 
> Debbie

Wednesday 6pm  
Moriarty’s Safe House

“I think I’ll call him ‘Johnny.’ What do you think, Seb? You’re always so good with these nicknames.” Moriarty asked, briefly removing the tubing from between his lips. Jim had been casually sipping from the IV connected to John’s Port for over an hour now and Seb was beginning to worry about John’s survival. At the rate that Jim was drinking, John likely wouldn’t last for much longer.

“He looks like a ‘Jack’ to me,” Seb said.

“Do really think so?” Moriarty asked, frowning down at a very pale John.

“Sherlock would never think to call him ‘Jack’ so it could be your special name for him.” Seb proposed, almost shyly.

“Hmmm…that’s a good idea and Jack is a nickname for John, after all. I like it! What do you think, Jack?” Moriarty asked John while taking a long pull on John’s blood.

“I…think…,” John opened his eyes and looking up at Moriarty, continued, “that by my estimate, at the rate you’re drinking my blood, I probably won’t last for more than a day, two at best, so I couldn’t give two fucks what you call me.” John’s eyelids slowly lowering as if he was too exhausted to keep them open.

“Jack! Jack! You’re no fun!” Moriarty said, gesturing with the uncapped tubing and getting John’s blood everywhere.

“Oopsy! My bad! Oh, Jack! Look at the mess I’ve made. You have blood all over your face and neck. Just let me clean that up for you. Seb, could you hold this for me?” Moriarty said, handing the mainline to John’s heart to Seb who quickly capped it. 

“Oh Jaaaack! Jack!” Moriarty bent down and yelled in John’s ear startling him into slowly opening his eyes again.

“That’s better! I wanted you to see what good care I’m taking of you! I always clean up after myself and I never let food go to waste,” Moriarty said beginning to lick every last drop of blood that had landed on John’s skin. When he was done, he leaned back to admire his work and smiled.

“There you go! Aren’t I good to my food, Sebby?” Moriarty said, grinning widely at Moran.

“Yes sir. Very good. I should really hook up another IV bag of fluids. He doesn’t look too good at the moment. Probably dehydrated. Definitely anemic. Even with the full bore connection in his chest, he’s running through fluids a lot faster than I’d originally planned. I need to make a run to Bart’s and grab a few more bags of blood.”

“Well, I suppose I should give him a rest,” said Moriarty who’d been about to reach out to Moran for the tubing again.

“If only you weren’t so delicious, Jackie-boy. Hey! I’m talking to you!” Moriarty said, poking John with his fingers and getting no results.

“What’s wrong with him, Seb? He shouldn’t be out already, should he?” Moriarty said with a pout.

“We should probably just let him rest a day or two to build up those red cells. I’d hate to have him die on you. I know that you’re really enjoying him but he can’t even remain conscious anymore. I’ll take care of this for you, boss. Can I get you a snack while I’m at Bart’s?” Moran asked, rolling the capped tubing and taping it to John’s chest to keep it from coming undone and killing John. It wouldn’t go over well if he came back only to find that John had bled out all over the floor because he hadn’t secured things properly. 

Jim had been in a good mood for quite awhile which was unusual. Moran knew that it was due to the addictive properties of John’s blood. It was keeping him happy for a lot longer than was usual but Sebastian didn’t want to see what happened once Jim drained John dry. At least not before he could hunt down another Dhamphir - John wasn’t going to last much longer. They weren’t feeding him and fluids weren’t going to do anything to replace his blood, especially at the rate Jim had been draining John. 

Moran was packing up to head out to Bart’s when Moriarty stopped him with a hand gently placed on his shoulder then moved his hand up until he could twirl Sebastian’s hair at the back of his neck. Looking up at Moran through lowered lashes in a flirty manner, Jim said;

“Seb…before you leave…Do you think…Would you mind giving Doctor Watson here another shot of that delicious pain killer before you go? It really spices things up. I mean, he’s delicious without it but one does need to salt one’s food occasionally.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jim,” Moran said hesitantly. He knew that there was a good chance that this “suggestion” wasn’t going to go over well.

“Oh, why not! I thought that you cared about me.” Moriarty pouted.

Sebastian wasn’t fooled by that pout for one minute. It was the calm before the storm. When Jim wanted something, he wouldn’t be denied. Still, Moran thought he’d give it one more try.

“It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just that it might be too much for his heart. He’s very low on blood and needs a little break before you get hungry again.” Moran began.

Moriarty’s coquettishness suddenly vanished and he looked up at Moran with eyes as black and shiny as polished onyx.

“I’m hungry NOW, Seb. He’ll be fine. And if he dies, well, you can just find me another one. Right?” 

“Dhamphir aren’t as easy to catch as Doctor Watson was and…you might lose your leverage with Sherlock Holmes if you kill his mate.”

“Ugh. Why do you always bore me with facts, Seb? You’re right, of course. Jack’s just so delicious that I temporarily lost sight of the goal. It was so good of you to remind me.” Moriarty said, smiling sweetly at Sebastian. 

“Now, about that injection…just leave it by the bed for me and I’ll give it to him myself after he’s rested awhile. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, now, would you?”

“Not at all, sir. I’ll prep a syringe and have it ready and waiting for you if I’m gone too long and you get peckish waiting for me.” Moran said, trying to placate his boss. 

“That’s more like it. See how easy that was? Well, go on. Get moving. Jackie boy doesn’t have all day, you know,” Jim said, laughing at his own comment.

“He might be empty by the time you get back and you know how unhappy I’ll be then, don’t you, Seb.” This wasn’t a question and Moran didn’t treat it as such, merely nodded his head as he walked to the counter to prepare the injection. This might just push Watson over the edge but there was nothing for it. When Jim was like this, he wouldn’t be denied.

Setting the syringe down on the tray next to John, Moran turned to leave only stopping when Jim called out to him.

“Oh, and Sebby?”

“Yes sir?”

“Bring home some Chinese tonight. We haven’t had that in awhile. He, or she, would make a lovely appetizer to the main course.”

“Yes, sir. No problem. I’ll be back before you know it,” Sebastian said, already opening the door.

“Don’t keep me waiiiiting!” Moriarty said in a sing song manner.

“No sir. I won’t,” Sebastian said and hurried from the room before Jim decided that he wanted dessert too.


End file.
